“She was lying there staring with her eyes open. I saw. Like she was possessed or something.” The words tumbled out of Beckett.
He was frightened of Francie! Joe reached for her drawings. “I’ll show you what she was doing.” He unrolled the panorama, showing all the peaks and ridges right across the horizon.
Beckett stared. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Francie drew that?”
“And this.” Joe passed him the drawing board with Francie’s bird’s-eye view of the land, and Beckett’s mouth hung open like a trout on a hook.
“That’s what she was doing. Seeing from above. Seeing and putting everything she sees into her memory. Every team has someone who draws the maps. Francie’s our drawer, and she’s our secret weapon. She’s why we’ve got a chance to win this race.”
Beckett’s mouth was still opening and closing like a dehydrating fish. Joe nudged him.
“She doesn’t talk but she’s the best artist in the country, probably. I bet you anything you like that everything is in the exact right place.”
“But how—?”
Joe tried to explain, though he wasn’t exactly sure himself.
“She flies. Not actually, because her body’s still lying there. But her brain can see the landscape from above, somehow. And her eyesight’s brilliant—she can zoom in like an eagle, so she can see right into the hazy distance.”
“And then she draws it perfectly,” Beckett shook his head. “I’d never have guessed. She looked like a scared baby when we were setting off.”
Joe thought. How to explain? He opened his compass. “See the needle? It’s very wobbly. Much wobblier than my old compass. That’s because it’s more sensitive, more accurate. Francie’s like that. She experiences things more than other people.”
“What sort of things?”
“Well, voices, say. She can hear more voices, all loud at once, which is why crowds of people are scary. All the voices make a painful racket in her head. But on the good side, colours are much brighter and she sees the shapes and patterns of everything, and she can remember them exactly, which helps her to draw.”
“Does she never talk?”
“No. She draws instead. But at home, she’s just normal. I mean, she can pour a cup of tea or peg out the washing—though she’ll probably arrange it like a rainbow.”
“Amazing.” Beckett glanced down at the map again. “Truly amazing. How old is she?”
“We’re eleven. How old are you?”
“Just turned fifteen.”
“Sal’s fourteen. She’s the maths genius. She’s our surveyor—our calculator.”
Beckett looked startled. “Maths genius?”
“When you make a map you have to work out distances and gradients, and how high the peaks are and all that. For the railway, we need to show a route that isn’t too steep for trains. Unless it’s the sort of slope they can climb, of course. She can do that. She likes calculating. When she can’t get to sleep she lies there working out prime numbers, and fifty decimal places of pi.”
“Well, topple me with a turnip!” Beckett looked behind him. Francie was curled up between the tent poles and the water barrel, and Sal was sitting at the back of the cart squinting through Pa’s uniscope. “What about you and young Humphrey, then?”
Humph was galloping ahead of the dray, waving a stick and arguing with himself. He was being a horse, the kind of talking horse that holds a sword in its front hooves.
“So far Humph’s only different in an ordinary way. And I don’t have any special talents. My job in the family is to find the route. Pa was teaching me. I’m going to be a route-finder like him. It’s an important job in a team, but anyone can learn to do it. And I don’t know anything about donkeys. None of us does. So we really need you to come with us.”
Carrot swooped down onto Beckett’s shoulder and rubbed her back against his cheek.
“Right.” Beckett stroked Carrot. “I suppose I just never realised how many different sorts of people there are in the world.” He looked at the map again and pointed to the second big river. That must be the River Brightwater. That’s where my village is.”
“Couldn’t be better! That’s the valley that Francie thinks is the best route into the mountains.”
“It’s the obvious way to go,” said Beckett, looking pleased.
“And you’ll come with us?”
“I reckon I will.”
That night they stopped by a small stream just before it got dark. Francie and Joe took charge of the meal. They unpacked everything they’d saved from the feast and separated out the food that needed eating most urgently. This meant stale fishpaste sandwiches and cold vegetable fritters for dinner, squashed, but delicious. They didn’t bother with a fire, so when it got dark there was nothing to compete with the stars. Joe lay back and searched the sky until he found the Great Fish constellation with its dorsal fin. This pointed north, the direction they needed to go. Maybe somewhere Ma was watching it, too, and Pa.
The moon rose between the trees, a brand new sliver of silver.
“We need to get all the way to New Coalhaven before the moon gets that small again,” said Sal.
“We should wish on it,” said Joe. “I wish Pa would come back.”
“My father’s dead,” said Beckett into the darkness. “He got the coughing disease last winter. I just wish that we win, and make the railway come this way.”
“I wish and wish and wish that Ma catches us up,” said Sal.
Joe lit a candle so Francie could draw her wish. She wanted to touch snow.
“Snow. Me too,” said Humphrey. “But also, I wish someone would tell me a story.”
“I will,” Joe said. He wriggled down in his sleeping bag and Humph snuggled in close. “This is the story of how Pa became an explorer.”
“Good one!” said Humphrey.
“One day, Pa’s mother and father took him on a visit to his grandparents’ farm and he saw mountains for the very first time. The mountains above the farm were so high that there was snow on top of them, even though it was summer. One morning Pa decided he needed to touch that snow, so after breakfast he set off up the hill. At first, this meant he was on a path.”
“Pa on a pa-th!” said Humphrey.
“Ha-ha. As he went up and up, his grandparents’ farm got smaller and smaller down below. Grandma’s aprons on the washing line became a string of colourful beads, and the cows and the pigs just spots on the green paddock.
“The path stopped at the trees and Pa climbed on up through the silent forest. He was out of breath and his legs were tired because he wasn’t used to climbing in those days, but he kept going up. He came out of the trees at last but he still hadn’t reached the snow. He was on a great slope of rocks that he had to scramble over. He could see the snow above him and he hoped it wasn’t much further because this side of the valley was in shade, which meant it was already afternoon.
“By now he was very thirsty. He kept climbing over the rocks, and the slope got steeper, but at last he was there, at the snow. Except it wasn’t like a patch of snow that he could make a snowman with, it was the end of a glacier. There was a cave under the glacier, a huge, chilly cave, like a church. Its roof was so high that Pa could stand up, and it came down into pointy icicles. Pa was really thirsty so he broke off an icicle and sucked on it, then he turned around. And he saw the world. He was higher than all the hills and the mountains around. It was like being a bird. The ridges went from dark purple to palest pink as they rose one behind another, behind another. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And beyond the last ridge he saw the ocean for the first time. It was shining golden in the setting sun.”
Humphrey wriggled round and put his head on Joe’s stomach. “What about Pa’s dinner?”
“He was starving. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and now he realised how late it was. His family would be worried and it would be dark long before he got home. He looked down but the farm had vanished into the dee
p shadows of the valley.
“He pulled his shirtsleeve over his hand so he could hold the icicle without freezing his fingers, and set off back down the mountain. He climbed over the rocks. Then he entered the forest and it was very dark, almost too dark to see. He stumbled and fell, and scraped his knees, but he got up and carried on. He scratched his arms and legs as he felt his way down through the trees. Down, always down.”
Humphrey sat up. “What about the icicle?”
“He finished it. Anyway, he started to have a strange feeling, as if someone or something was following him. A twig cracked. He called out—is someone there? But there was no answer. He stood still and listened. Sometimes he thought he could hear breathing, but he told himself he was being silly and it was just the wind in the branches. He stumbled on blindly, just with the sense that he was going downwards.
“Then suddenly, something warm and heavy hurled itself at him, knocking him down. Something was growling above him. He was terrified; his heart thumped so hard he couldn’t even squeak.
“The growling stopped. Nothing had sunk its teeth into him, so he sat up, and there was a large dog sitting next to him, panting quietly. And, faintly, by the light of the stars, he could see there were no trees in front of him. The ground dropped away in a vertical cliff. The dog had appeared from nowhere to save his life.”
“The wolf,” Humphrey whispered.
“Pa crawled up the slope a little, away from the edge, then he sat, shivering and shaking. The dog breathed on him, warm breath, and lay down beside him so he felt the warmth of its body. When he’d recovered from the shock, Pa stood up and thanked the dog. The dog stood beside him and Pa put his hand on its shoulder, and it led the way safely down. By the time they reached the path through the fields above the farm, the moon was up. Pa saw that the dog’s thick coat was silvery as the moonlight; its ears were sharp and its eyes glinted silver in the dark. Pa set off down the path, but the dog stayed at the edge of the trees. The first time Pa looked back the dog was watching him, but the second time he looked, the dog had gone. There were lights moving down below; Pa’s parents and grandparents were out with lanterns looking for him. They were pretty relieved to see him, I can tell you.
“When he told them about the dog they were astonished. They asked what it looked like and he told them about its warm breath and its thick silver coat, its sharp ears and its glinting eyes.
“‘That was no dog,’ said Pa’s grandpa. ‘That was the silver wolf that saved your life. It’s lived in the mountains up there for hundreds of years. No one has seen it in my lifetime, though plenty have looked for it. It’s said that if you see the silver wolf you will get your heart’s desire.’ And they asked Pa what his heart’s desire was, and they expected him to say he wanted to be rich, but he said, ‘I want to be an explorer. I’m going to climb mountains and look down from the top. I want to see more of that beautiful world I saw today.’ And that’s what he did.”
Humph took his thumb out of his mouth. “And the wolf howled, don’t forget.”
“Oh, yes. When Pa said that, there came a great howl, which echoed round the valley, as if the wolf was agreeing with him.”
“I want to see more of the world,” said Humph.
“You will. Sleep now. Twenty-six days to go,” said Joe.
CHAPTER SIX
DUMPLING AND TREACLE
They reached Beckett’s village in the middle of the afternoon. Joe had never seen such a sad place. Most of the buildings were deserted and their roofs had fallen in. Beckett said that the people who used to live in them had given up and moved to Grand Prospect because it was too hard to make a living so far from anywhere. Weeds grew up around the door of the smithy, and the paddocks along the riverbank had been abandoned to thistles. The inn looked solid enough, but the roof of Beckett’s cottage was covered in patches.
Beckett’s mother ran to meet him with his five younger brothers and sisters. They all exclaimed and hugged. He gave his mother the coins he’d saved by doing odd jobs in Grand Prospect, and some soap and cooking oil he’d brought for her, and she hugged him again, and told him he’d grown and how his voice sounded all manly, which made his ears turn crimson.
Beckett introduced everyone, then he asked his brothers and sisters to look after Plodder.
“We’re going to have a talk with Mr Arbuckle.”
Mr Arbuckle was the village baker, and also the innkeeper and the ferryman who rowed hunters across the Brightwater River. There was no one in the inn, and there was nothing in the bakehouse but flies. They found him out the back, splitting logs, his face scarlet and sweat dripping off the end of his bulgy nose. When Beckett asked him to lend his donkeys, he just snorted.
“We’ll pay you double,” Sal offered recklessly. “Double whatever the rate is for donkeys, when we return them.”
Mr Arbuckle pulled out a hanky and mopped his neck. “You won’t return,” he said. “Few people have crossed those bare steeps where desolation stalks.”
“Stalks,” said Carrot, eyeing him from a log.
“Shh!” Sal was sucking on the end of her plait—a sure sign that she was anxious. But Beckett didn’t look bothered; he gently persuaded Mr Arbuckle to rest in the shade of a tree, and he squatted in front of him.
“Mr Arbuckle, sir. You are the leader of this village and a wise man. This competition is to find a way through the mountains between Grand Prospect and New Coalhaven, so folks can get to New Coalhaven more easily. First, just a horse track, but then—a railway! Now, I want you to imagine something …”
Beckett spoke in a way that made everyone want to listen. Mr Arbuckle leaned back against the tree trunk and fanned himself with his hat.
“Sir, I want you to imagine that the winning route comes through this village. First, surveyors pass through here, and engineers. They stay in your inn. Next up, the railway builders arrive. They need to be fed and watered. Then trains come through. Everyone buys your famous pies. You get your Daily Bugle on the day it’s printed, instead of a week late. You grow rich.” He paused. Mr Arbuckle was listening closely. “You can afford to pay someone to cut your firewood. Your back stops hurting. The village grows. We become somewhere. We need a mayor—” He paused dramatically. “We elect you, Mr Arbuckle!”
Joe was impressed. Beckett had thought a lot about what having a railway station would mean to his village, and Mr Arbuckle seemed to believe every word—for a minute. Then he noticed Humph, who was trying to do a somersault, bottom up and one leg waving in the air, and he became cross. “That’s ridiculous. How do you imagine that you children could ever win? I’ve read about this competition in the Daily Bugle. There’s a team of scientists who’ve entered. And Sir Monty Whatsit—he’s famous. And Cody Cole, that professional explorer. And you think you lot can beat them? Ridiculous.”
But Beckett hadn’t finished. “Sir, they may not be fully grown, but the Santanders have been trained by their famous explorer parents, and they all have special skills. The competition is to produce a route and also to make a map. Like this.”
He smoothed out Francie’s map. Mr Arbuckle glanced at it, then he peered more closely. There was silence, then he let out his breath in a long whistle.
“Who drew this? When?” He looked at them all in turn.
“Francie drew this yesterday, sir,” said Sal.
“Extraordinary.” He looked at Francie, who was busy sketching him, and at Joe and Sal, sitting cross-legged on the ground. “Quite extra-ordinary.” His finger traced the road between Grand Prospect and the village.
Then Francie did something she’d never done before. She carefully tore out the page she’d been working on and held it out for Mr Arbuckle to take. It was a terrific portrait, just how he must have looked about twenty years before, but with a normal-shaped nose.
He blinked. “I say.” He swallowed. “I say, I say!” He fanned his face with his hat. “My goodness, what a likeness.” He hesitated, his voice uncertain, almost apologetic. “But I n
eed my donkeys. I use them every day.”
Beckett had the answer for everything. “We will leave you our horse and dray to use while we’re away, sir. It’s a fair exchange and I promise you won’t regret it.”
That night they stretched out in a row under the apricot tree in Beckett’s garden. As soon as Humph was asleep, Joe called out quietly, “Beckett! Beckett? Who does Plodder actually belong to?”
Beckett cleared his throat. “Um … I’ve no idea.”
“What?” Joe and Sal exclaimed together.
“Well I hadn’t eaten in ages. I was watching the preparations in the square and wondering how to lay my hands on a loaf of bread, when this man asks can I drive a horse and dray? I says, course I can, since I was knee-high, and he says, take this horse to the station to meet the last expedition and there’s a free feed for you. The driver had got into a fight and his nose was pouring blood. But the bleeding man was just the driver. Plodder wasn’t his horse. I’ve no idea who owns him. I just picked you up and took you to the town square and now here we are.”
“D’you mean we’ve stolen him?” asked Sal.
“Borrowed,” said Joe, “because we really, really needed the donkeys. Twenty-five days to go.”
*
Dumpling was a honey-coloured female and Treacle was a black male donkey. They were fully grown but seemed very small. The Santanders looked at the mountain of equipment and essential supplies they’d unloaded from the dray, and at the four harvesting baskets Beckett had borrowed from his mother, which the donkeys would carry as panniers.
They started to make piles. Ma’s clothes, her darning bag, and the lesson books she used to teach them latin, history and astronomy were easy choices for the “leave” pile, but everything else seemed equally essential.
“So now what?” said Joe. The “take” pile was still a ten-donkey load.
“What now?” said Carrot.
Beckett laughed and picked up Simpson’s Grammar Explained. “Did you teach that bird to talk?”
Joe held out a piece of unripe apricot to Carrot. “Ma rescued her from a schoolroom. Carrot spent years listening to Miss Wilton-Clark, the world’s bossiest teacher.”
The Mapmakers' Race Page 4