“We’ve finished the leftovers and I’m not eating porridge again,” said Beckett.
“Nor me,” said Joe. “What else is there?”
Sal straightened up. “Porridge is the only thing I know how to cook.”
“No offence, like, but porridge is one of the many things you don’t know how to cook,” said Beckett.
“Well, I’m sorry my porridge isn’t up to your high standards,” Sal snapped. “I’m a mathematician, not the flipping chef.”
Beckett looked around slowly. “Who is the flipping chef?”
Joe scratched some burnt scrapings off the side of the porridge pot. “Ma’s always done the cooking. And Pa when he was here.”
“What exactly were you planning to eat on this expedition of yours?” asked Beckett.
“I don’t know. Food.” Sal shrugged. “I didn’t really think about it.”
Beckett shook his head in disbelief. Finally, he said, “I’ll make dinner.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A STORY THAT ISN’T REALLY ABOUT A PIG
“What about the caterpull?” said Humph.
Beckett passed him the catapult. “Work it out.” Joe hadn’t heard Beckett sound grumpy before. He hurried to give him a hand.
“Stupid me. I just assumed—” Beckett’s voice went squeaky then growly. “I just assumed that you lot would have the basics nailed—like cooking—since you could do the fancy stuff—like making maps. Goes to show. Even my six-year-old sister can make perfect porridge.”
They laid all the food out on the groundsheet and considered it, together. Some apples, the jar of pickles and the whole cheese (a bit sweaty) left from the feast. Some carrots and potatoes, a bag each of dried peas and beans, and a jar of special bread starter from Beckett’s mother. And then there were the supplies they’d brought with them on the train: a tin each of sugar biscuits and raisins, bags of flour, rice, oats, tea, a tin of lard, a flitch of bacon that smelled of smoke, and a tube of salt. And half a bag of sugar.
Joe bit into a carrot. “It looks like a lot of food.”
“Not nearly enough,” said Beckett. “Unless we’re very, very careful.”
Beckett knew how to cook. He scrubbed out the pot and chopped two carrots into it with rice, water, salt and some bits of bacon, and added some green leaves he’d picked by the stream. Then he made bread dough using some of the starter from his mother’s special jar.
While they waited for dinner Joe showed Humph how to make an H for Humphrey out of sticks. Then they practised drawing A for apple, B for bear and C for Carrot in the dirt, while a yawning Francie drew a sketch map for Joe, and a picture of what she’d seen. No Ma. But just a little way down the river, a white horse and at least two people.
“It has to be another team,” said Joe. “But which one?”
Francie shrugged.
“Who had a white horse, Humph? Not the Cowboys or the Solemn men?”
“No. The mechanical horses weren’t white.”
“Maybe the women’s team?”
Humph shook his head. “Their horse was brown.”
“Must be Roger Rumpledown’s team, then,” said Joe. “And they’re coming this way.”
The Santanders had decided to stay where they were for two nights. It would mean Joe could go ahead by himself to explore the next part of the route, and Francie and Sal could finish the map of the journey so far. Sal broke up a long branch to feed into the fire and admitted to Joe that the real reason she’d suggested staying put was because she’d hoped Ma would catch them up.
“But that’s not Ma behind us.” She stamped on a branch to snap it. “And most likely she hasn’t even got to Grand Prospect yet. And if there’s a team right behind us, well, maybe we should all go on together?”
“How do we have the best chance of winning? Best map or first back?” asked Beckett, who was stirring the dinner pot.
“Best map,” said Sal.
Joe agreed. “Francie should get as much time as possible for map work.”
Beckett settled it. “Then we should definitely stay here for a day. Dumpling’s got a cut on her leg. If she rests it and we bathe it tomorrow, it’ll heal. If not, there’s a chance it may fester.”
So they tried to forget about Roger Rumpledown and concentrate on dinner instead. It tasted even better than it smelled. Joe ran his finger round the bowl to get the last drop and licked it.
“That was a miracle. I vote we make Beckett expedition chef from now on. All those in favour?”
Everyone raised their spoons.
Beckett wiped out the cooking pot and put the risen dough into it, nestled the pot in the hot embers of the fire, and shovelled more glowing embers onto the lid to bake his bread.
“Suits me,” he said. “But I can’t be the cook unless I’m in charge of food as well. And I make the rules about it. Actually, there’s only one rule: No helping yourselves. Not to anything.”
They all agreed. It was easy to agree with a full stomach. They banked up the fire with slow-burning suswatch branches and snuggled down in their sleeping bags close together.
But despite being exhausted, no one slept, except Francie. A twig snapped. A branch scraped. Some animal cried, far away. Something rustled through the ferns, and they all held their breath.
“Is it a bear?” Humphrey whispered.
“No, it’s something very small. A mouse,” said Sal. “I’ll tell you a story if you promise to go to sleep after. A true story about some noises that I heard one night in our tent.”
Humph wriggled close to her. “I promise.”
*
“A long time ago, when I was a bit younger than you, Pa and Ma were making a map of the lakes in the western mountains. It was summer and we lived in the tent. The water was warm and Pa taught me to swim, and Ma taught me to read.
“Then one night I woke up and heard this funny whoof-whoof-whoof sound. The lantern was bright on the other side of the blanket that hung down to make a separate sleeping space for me, so I whispered, ‘Pa, what’s that?’
“And he said, ‘It’s all right, Sal, it’s just a hedgehog snuffling around outside. I’ll shoo it away. Go back to sleep.’
“So I did. And a bit later I heard a louder sound, like a grunt, grunt, grunt. And I called out, ‘Pa, what’s that?’
“And he said, ‘It’s all right, Sal, it’s just a wild pig outside the tent. I’ll shoo it away. Go back to sleep.’
“So I did. But a bit later I woke up and I could hear another noise that wasn’t a snuffle or a grunt—it was a cry. ‘Waaaa!’
“I sat up in bed and said, ‘Pa, what’s that?’
“And he said, ‘It’s a baby—your new baby brother.’
“A brother? Ma and Pa had me, we didn’t need a baby in the family. So I said, ‘Shoo it away and I’ll go back to sleep.’
“But Pa said no. He carried me in to say hello to Joe, who was tiny and wrapped in a towel, lying in Ma’s arms.
“And then Ma said, ‘Holygamoley, Pa, there’s another one coming!’ And Pa put me back on my side of the curtain and tucked baby Joe in next to me.
“And that hedgehog began to whoosh again and the pig began to grunt but I hardly heard because baby Joe’s face went red and all screwed up and he began to bellow: ‘Wah, wah, wah.’ And I said, ‘Shh, baby, shh, I’m your big sister,’ and then I put my knuckle against his mouth and he sucked on it, and his face went calm, and he looked at me with his big dark eyes. And I thought, maybe this brother will be all right.”
“Not just all right,” said Joe. “You thought, this brother is amazing!”
“Not bad,” said Sal. “He wasn’t bad. And by the time Pa lifted baby Joe up again he was fast asleep. Then I saw that Ma was feeding another baby and that was Francie. She’d arrived into the world without making a sound.”
“And what about me? Why aren’t I there?” Humph was cross.
“You weren’t born yet, not for ages,” said Joe.
Humph was always g
rumpy when he remembered they’d been a family before he was born and they shared memories that didn’t include him.
“It’s mean. You should have waited for me.”
“We did,” said Sal. “And here you are.”
“Twenty-two days to go,” said Joe. “Sleep time, baby Humph.”
When Joe got up, it felt as if the whole world was still sleeping. The valley was filled with mist and even the dawn warblers sounded muffled. Carrot flew on to his shoulder as he started the long climb to the top of the ridge. To begin with he couldn’t help thinking about bears, but there were no signs of any big animals—no scat, no bits of fur caught on a prickle bush, no paw prints—and soon he stopped thinking about wild animals and concentrated on finding a route. All through last year, Ma had set him tests: find a way to the top of that hill; find the most direct route home, so it wasn’t the first time he’d been on his own in a strange place, but this was the first time he was exploring on his own for real; the first time it mattered that he did a good job. No rush; take care.
Everything was still, and damp, and smelled of earth. His feet moved silently on the thick moss that grew under the trees, although he made plenty of noise with Pa’s slasher.
Swish-swash. He sliced through thorny creepers.
Smack-crack. He snapped off dead branches.
It was no use scrambling straight up; he had to make a path the donkeys could follow, and that could be widened for carts one day. So he zigged and zagged, back-tracking every time the slope became too steep, and he marked every bend in the route with a strip of orange silk. It was slow work. Carrot kept stopping to poke in the bark of branches for grubs but she always caught up again.
After a while the trees thinned until he could see where he was going, and then the sun came out, and soon after that he was above the tree line, above the shade. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks and the back of his neck burned until he took off his over-shirt and draped it over his head. He’d had a sunhat when they started but he’d lost it.
Onwards. Upwards. This was taking a very long time.
Finally, the slope levelled out.
“We did it, Carrot! We’ve got to the top.”
“Top marks!” Carrot flew to his arm and together they looked out across a strange and unrecognisable world. The Brightwater Valley was filled with a white ocean of mist, dotted with island peaks that stuck up above it. Sal had called the round-topped mountain “Mt Bowler” and the flat-topped one “Mt Boater”.
It was a brilliant day.
Joe took out his lunch even though the sun was nowhere near overhead. Beckett had left a sandwich and an apple for him, and Joe had added a few raisins and a hunk of cheese. Beckett’s bread was dense and moist, and a hundred times more delicious than the dry bricks Ma produced on the campfire.
Carrot looked hopeful.
“I’ll give you some of my water. Not my sandwich, though.”
The parrot rubbed her crest in the little puddle of water Joe poured into his palm and shook herself.
When he’d finished his lunch, Joe looked around. This was perfect for the Vertical. A climbing train could come straight up the incline he’d zigzagged up, and the hilltop was practically flat. Couldn’t be better. Beyond, the land sloped gently down into a broad, empty valley that stretched to the north, towards the snowcapped mountains in the distance. They were a lot nearer than when Joe had first seen them from the road to Beckett’s house. They’d already come a very long way.
There was no mist in this valley, and no trees, just a few patches of low bushes. Francie had drawn a rough route when she’d woken up after flying, but she couldn’t tell from above what was firm and what was bog, or just how steep a slope was. It was Joe’s job to find the actual path along the valley, and then up and over a long rim of hills that Francie had called Crocodile Ridge to wherever they needed to go next.
He scanned the landscape and listened. Nothing but the trickle of a tiny stream flowing under the heather, the hums of invisible insects, and a skytrill, flying too high to see. He was the only thing moving about in all that high wild land, apart from Carrot.
Be observant, Pa had said. Watch what’s growing and how it grows, feel the direction of the wind, watch the shadows, see which way the water’s flowing. Use your compass and your brain. Always leave markers. And don’t forget to turn around often so you know what the journey back should look like.
Pa had always said he’d walk alongside Joe when he found his first route. Walk alongside him but let Joe make all the decisions. He was the only other person who knew what finding a route involved. But he wasn’t there. Joe sang “The Song of the Mountain Builder” and tried not to think about anything except the land around him.
He walked miles that day. The route for the train had to have few ups-and-downs, no zig-zags and not too many stream crossings. The markers were a problem because there were no trees to hang them from, so he had to tie them to bushes where they weren’t always easy to see. He often had to backtrack, collecting up his markers as he went, then setting off a little higher up the slope, or lower, to avoid a steep drop. He was pleased with himself, and thought if Pa had been there, he’d have said, Well done, son, you’re using your brain and remembering everything I told you. Good work.
When the sun was showing about two o’clock, he started the long trek back to the camp, following his silks. Just before he reached the zigzag down through the trees he was startled by a loud snort. He froze, in case it was something fierce, and looked around slowly. Not a wolf, but a large white horse. Stretched out in the sun nearby and snoring softly were Roger Rumpledown and his three Ruffians. Joe sneaked past before they saw him.
How weird. In all this vast landscape, why were the Rumpledown Ruffians right by his path?
By the time he got back to camp, his legs were aching, his stomach was flapping and he felt like sleeping for a week. But he knew he’d found the best way into the broad valley and flagged a good level route halfway along it, and he hadn’t got lost and he’d got back before dark so no one would be worried. He was looking forward to hearing the others say, “Here’s Joe! Well done, Joe,” or possibly, “You’re brilliant! Wonderful! What an achievement.”
But that’s not what happened.
CHAPTER NINE
AN UNSWALLOWABLE ROCK
While Joe had been finding the next section of their route, Sal and Francie had worked on the map of the route they’d already travelled. Sal opened the altimeter and unrolled the scroll of paper inside. She was relieved to see that the altimeter was working perfectly. There were hundreds of dots along the scroll, one for every hundred clicks of the altimeter wheel, and they rose gradually up the width of the paper from the starting point at Grand Prospect (145 feet above sea level) to this clearing at 920 feet above sea level. Less than one foot up for every one hundred feet along—perfect for trains.
She sharpened a pencil with her pocketknife and opened her notebook. She had the whole day to do what she liked doing best, which was trigonometry. How high was each peak? How far below their track was the river? What was the gradient of the slope ahead?
Time passed. When Sal finally glanced up she was astonished to see that the sun was already hidden behind the trees. How did it get to be afternoon already? And where was Humphrey?
“Have you seen the boys?”
Francie shook her head without looking up.
“Where did they go?”
Francie shrugged.
“Francie!” Sometimes Francie was exasperating.
Francie sighed, screwed the lid on her ink pot, put down the pen with which she’d been drawing tiny trees to represent the forest, and stood up. She let her eyes go squinty and turned slowly round in a circle. Her nose was up as though she were sniffing the air. At last she nodded downhill and gave Sal a look that said nothing terrible has happened to Humphrey and Sal had to be satisfied.
She cut them both some bread and cheese and gave the list of heights she’d made to Francie,
who was adding colour wash to the map she’d drawn: very thick forests were dark green, and places that were easy to walk she coloured pale pink. All the features were neatly labelled in Francie’s tiny handwriting: Black Bear Bend, Mt Beckett (2601 feet), Wait-for-Me Stream, Hop Over Stream, Crocodile Ridge and Lost Knife Gully.
“Where could they have gone?”
Francie ignored her.
Sal listened hard. Insects buzzed and hummed. A cuckoo called, and a lizard rustled away under the leaves. No voices. That morning Sal had snapped at Humph to stop asking questions and leave her in peace, but now she wished she could hear his insistent voice saying, “Sal? Hey, Sal?”
Beckett was all right. No, he was excellent at what he was good at: cooking, managing donkeys, entertaining Humph. But he wasn’t an explorer. He didn’t have a compass. Five steps into the forest and you could be lost forever.
She called and called, but there were no answering shouts.
How long should she give them before starting to search? What on earth were they doing anyway, going off without telling her? Anything could have happened. Bears. Snakes. And neither of them could swim. Cliffs. A broken leg was all they needed. Didn’t Beckett realise they mustn’t take risks—they all had to be fit and in one piece to tackle the high mountains. She was getting more and more furious inside, so when Beckett and Humphrey strolled out of the trees with the donkeys, she bellowed, “Where the hell have you been?”
Beckett looked shocked. “You knew where we were.”
“How could I know?”
“You could know,” Beckett said slowly, in his most annoying, patient voice, “because I told you. So did Humphrey. I said, ‘We’re going down to that pool we passed, to bathe the donkeys and to see if we can catch a fish.’ Humph said he’d dug some worms for bait. And you answered, ‘Right-o, good.’ ”
“Oh.” Sal could have apologised then, but instead she said, “I hope you caught something.”
“Well, no, we didn’t.”
“So what are we having for dinner?”
The Mapmakers' Race Page 6