‘Johnny Jay? He was good, wasn’t he?’ said the headmaster. ‘He left a message on my phone – said it was a bit short notice this time, but he’s still hopeful.’
‘It was nice to see that co-operation,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘We should build on that, Giles. Our lot can be very shy with strangers. Are we late, by the way?’
‘We said just after sundown,’ said Doonan. ‘We’re right on time.’
The Priory had arrived.
They had taken the road, of course, and it ended in a gravel car park, with a toilet block at the far end. Beyond that was a lawn area with a sign reminding the public that camping beside Flashing Tor was allowed if all fees had been paid in advance and licences obtained. There was another, larger sign screwed to the gate, listing various things campers shouldn’t do. Park rangers, it said, had the authority to remove people if the necessary paperwork was not produced. One such officer was going through Mr Ian’s file, ticking boxes on a checklist.
‘How many have you got, sir?’
‘Fifteen,’ said Mr Ian, coldly.
‘And the other school? Ribblestrop Towers?’
‘Twenty-two. They’ll be here later.’
‘Good. We’ve had a severe weather warning, you know. Thought you might cancel the trip.’
‘We won’t be going far.’
‘No? So you’re just here for one night? You’ve booked in for three, but—’
‘We’ll see how it goes. We didn’t expect bad weather.’
‘Happens all the time round here. Spoils a lot of plans. Do you need any extra bin bags, by the way? Oh . . . sir.’ He was peering through one of the side windows. ‘Is that a gas stove under the seat? Behind the little lad’s feet? With a T36 gas cylinder?’
‘Yes. It’s to heat our evening meal.’
The ranger shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you’re not up with the latest regulations.’ He pulled out another form and began to fill it in. He smiled at Mr Ian. ‘Bit of an incident with a T36 last summer, so they’re on our “not permitted” list. Seems the valves can be a bit unpredictable in hot weather, specially if they’re kicked over. You can phone for a pizza delivery, perhaps?’
Mr Ian closed his eyes. ‘We’ve been using these stoves for fifteen years. It’s how we cook supper.’
‘Can’t allow it, sir. If it was up to me, I’d turn a blind eye. You should have said it was a TD50 – they’re allowed if the user has a certificate. If you could just sign here and here, to say you’ve agreed to comply. Have you got any dogs with you? No? In that case, I’ll show you where you can put your tents.’
He pulled out two small, orange flags.
‘Can you stay in first gear, sir? I’ll guide you into your bay.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The ranger beckoned and waved, and Mr Ian was soon on his allotted patch of grass. The children clambered out and once they had their tents unrolled the man departed. Everyone worked hard and fast and three blue tents were soon neatly parallel to one another, the guy ropes just touching. They’d brought a small storage tent, which housed other equipment, and they sited their windbreaker. Two boys went to fill the water container and pots and pans were set out ready to go. Mr Ian put up his own tent and then checked the children’s. Their sleeping bags, torches and pyjamas were arranged properly, according to the diagrams he’d issued.
He gave the order for the relaxation of the dress code and the children removed their ties and pullovers. These were stowed in specially designed travel bags and the official Priory jeans were pulled on. If the children felt cold, they had blue Priory fleeces. If it rained, they had blue Priory waterproofs, which were ready in plastic tubes. Mr Ian himself had an all-weather Gore-Tex jacket in the same shade. He’d had the school crest embroidered onto it and he lay it carefully by his boots. Then, checking to see that the park ranger really had left them to it, he assembled the illegal stove.
‘I hope we won’t get into trouble, sir,’ said Hubble.
‘Why should we?’ said Mr Ian. ‘The man was talking nonsense. Get the potatoes peeled – that’s your job, isn’t it? Jacqueline – sausages!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Johnson. Do you think you’re strong enough to open a tin?’
‘I’ve got it here, sir—’
‘Decant it, then, and use your initiative. A meal cooked out of doors always tastes better – you did an essay on that last term.’
The Priory children were soon hard at work and as Mr Ian’s watch turned to eight o’clock he lit the burner.
At that precise moment, the Ribblestrop children attacked.
It wasn’t a real attack, of course, because the schools had established such friendly relations – it was a charge for the sheer joy of charging. Sanjay had seen the minibus from high above and it had been Miles and Anjoli who suggested creeping down to surround them before the Ribblestrop teachers got there. They’d slid down the side of the tor in silence and then fanned out, rabbit-crawling through the scrub. They used the sounds of skylarks, ravens and owls to communicate, though The Priory children were far too intent on preparations to notice them. Miles raised his arm when everyone was in position – it was just visible as a black silhouette – and pointed to the blue tents. With blood-curdling whoops and howls they raced in together, vaulting the hedges. It took only seconds to let the tents down, and then Eric led the assault on the children themselves.
The Priory pupils recognised their friends and fought back vigorously. Ignoring the cries of Mr Ian, there were soon several scrums as hand-to-hand combat turned into fierce wrestling. Eric was shouting, ‘Take them prisoner! Take them prisoner!’ when a hand was slammed over his mouth and he found himself on his back. He was pinned by the sharp knees of a boy he dimly remembered – a spiky-looking child with frizzy hair. Kenji and Nikko were rolled up in one of the collapsed tents and then The Priory children regrouped to repel Miles, Sam and Anjoli.
Anjoli, unfortunately, was so excited that he ran straight through the windbreaker and tripped over the stove. Mr Ian could only watch in horror as the sausages tipped onto the grass, and the hot fat caught fire. Worse than that, the gas canister was booted sideways and the nozzle sheered clean off its tube.
It became a flame-thrower.
There was only one object in immediate proximity, and that was Mr Ian’s personal tent, sited a discrete distance from the others. He raced across to save it, but couldn’t get near: his sleeping bag, his boots and his beloved waterproof were caught in a furnace, melting together into a sticky mess of zips and rubber. It was Asilah who managed to block the gas and soon everyone was stamping out the flames.
‘Oh man,’ said Podma. ‘That was a close one! That could have caught the bus!’
‘Look at your food!’ shouted Miles. ‘You got ash in the beans.’
‘Look at his stuff!’ said Sam.
‘Who trod on the sausages? Look at that – they’re ruined.’
Israel was holding his eye. ‘I got punched!’ he said, in disbelief. ‘By a girl!’
Mr Ian looked from face to face. It was too dark to see who was who, though some of his own children had torches. He was so angry he couldn’t speak – his mouth would not work. His rage was throbbing, but he realised that he had spent so much of his life getting worked up about trivial things – about tie-knots and untucked shirts – that he had no reactions huge enough for a real atrocity. That a group of children could do so much damage in such a short time and stand there smiling at him, eager and happy . . . His heart was unable to pump enough blood to his brain. He was about to have a blackout.
‘Something wrong?’ said a voice. ‘What on earth’s that smell?’
He turned and the nightmare got worse. He was tipped from one ring of hell to the next. A donkey was staring at him and in the chariot it pulled was the Ribblestrop headmaster, carrying a flaming torch. Behind him there was a camel and the stinking savages of Ribblestrop were forming a ring around him. There was a hand on his shoul
der.
‘We’ll do the fire, sir,’ said Captain Routon. ‘You’ll have an accident if you’re not careful.’ He called out to the children. ‘We need a bit of light, first of all. Vijay on the shelters, please – squad of eight. Everyone else, wood gathering – except Tomaz. Tomaz, can you pick your team for kitchen duty?’
Doonan called out over the noise, ‘Mr Ian’s lot? Do you mind helping us all for a bit? Miles and Millie, can you explain what needs doing?’
Mr Ian climbed into the minibus and locked the doors.
For the next hour, the work was fast and efficient, and he tried not to look. Wooden poles were going up, right by The Priory children’s tents. They opened up into what looked like a tripod and then a large canvas skin was being unfurled to complete a genuine teepee. There was laughter floating in the night and the sounds of metal hammering on wood. There was the occasional squeal and a steady stream of children emerging from the nearby trees, their arms full of branches. Soon, the whole camp was bright and hot, for a huge campfire was blazing inside a perimeter wall of torches.
When the headmaster rapped on the glass, Mr Ian ignored him. There was no point trying to get control – wherever he looked, some new outrage was being committed. A boy with long hair had a piglet on a spit. There was a pan of what looked like stew and he saw with a shock that Jacqueline and Harry were helping prepare it. They were chattering happily and laughing. The tents had been re-pitched, even closer to the Ribblestrop teepee, and the flames cast long, demonic shadows. He could see a Ribblestrop boy in a Priory fleece. Two of his own children were shirtless and seemed to be trying on some kind of garland or necklace. Logs had been dragged from the forest and were being sited around the fire, which was sending columns of sparks up into the night.
When the singing started, he covered his face. The Priory children were learning the Ribblestrop school song and he knew there was nothing he could do. Only hunger drove him out of the minibus and he took his place at the far end of a log.
‘Does your school have a song?’ said Millie. She was crouching right next to him, speaking almost into his ear.
‘Yes.’
‘How’s it go?’
‘Oh, wow!’ shouted Miles. ‘I can almost remember it. Something about pain, yes? In pain we learn stuff – something like that.’
Two Priory children immediately began singing, their treble voices piping happily.
‘Persevere in labour, persevere in pain!
Though the path is thorny, dawn is on her way.’
Hands started clapping in rhythm.
’Triumph in disaster, labour not in vain!
We will pull together, come what may!’
There was a burst of applause and whistles.
The children soon had spoons and plates to bang, and the songs were sung alternately. Several Priory children were in their school choir and taught soaring descants, which they flung up to the stars. When their voices were hoarse, Imagio sang a very dirty township song in Spanish, which was so full of swearwords that Sanchez had to stop translating them. Just before midnight, the pig was roasted through and Tomaz and Caspar carved it with their daggers. Baked potatoes were brought out of the ashes and the stew was ladled into bowls. Doonan distributed the bread and there was silence as they ate. Finally, a great tray of coconut ice was produced and it went round the circle three times before it was finished. It was soaked in rum and sugar, and the feast was at an end. The headmaster served hot chocolate in little earthenware cups the children had made and Doctor Ellie played her flute.
There was peace.
‘So where are they now, miss?’ said Tomaz.
‘Who?’ asked a Priory pupil.
‘The Lost Tribe,’ whispered Kenji. ‘That’s who we’re following.’
Doctor Ellie finished a tune, and said, ‘Gone from here, I’m afraid.’
‘Where to, though?’ said Israel.
She smiled. ‘They disappeared two thousand years ago,’ she said, into the silence. ‘Nobody knows where, because it was never documented.’
‘Maybe they stayed and just joined other tribes,’ said Doonan.
‘I’m sure some of them did. The Romans came west, of course. They may have fled the Romans. They may have turned themselves into sailors and sailed to the Americas.’
‘Why feathers, miss?’ said Sanjay. ‘Did you find out why they had a thing about feathers?’
‘Birds,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe they turned into birds and flew away?’
Millie laughed. ‘Sam’s drunk,’ she said.
‘I did identify the species,’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘I’ll need to verify it, because it’s . . . well, there’s something rather strange. According to my bird book – and I checked this with a friend from a local bird sanctuary – the feathers belong to a hawk that used to be common here. You get them in Asia, too, but they died out in England years ago. Silver and bronze in the feathers and—’
‘The River Falcon,’ said Asilah.
‘Yes.’ She paused, and looked at him. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It’s where we grew up, miss,’ said Vijay. ‘You get them in the mountains. They fly higher than any other bird.’
‘And further,’ said Kenji. ‘They can fly forever.’
‘That’s not true. That’s a myth!’
‘The last one was seen round here thirteen years ago,’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘It was never verified, actually, because the spotter wouldn’t give her name. She worked at the listening station on Lightning Tor – I told you about that place, I think. She said there was a whole nesting ground. They live as a colony, apparently. But . . . that may all be mythology as well. We may never know – that place is still off-limits, I’m afraid.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Captain Routon addressed everyone the next morning at dawn.
Tomaz had the coffee on before sunrise, so by the time the children were awake and dressed there were three large pots steaming and Imagio was stirring a huge saucepan of porridge. There was an early-morning mist hanging inches off the ground and the Ribblestrop children were wrapped in the blankets they’d woven in Doonan’s loom classes. Some of The Priory children were wild-haired and wide-eyed. They always rose early at school, but they had never seen a sunrise like this one. The grass was wet, the dew gleaming and glimmering. Flashing Tor reared up into a sky that seemed higher, bluer and brighter. There were even stars, fading.
‘Everyone sleep well?’ asked Captain Routon. ‘I hope so, because it’s a tough day ahead. Your lot all ready, Mr Ian?’
Mr Ian nodded grimly. He had spent a cold night in the minibus wrapped in Captain Routon’s coat. It had hurt his pride to accept it when offered, but as he had no tent, no bedding and no spare clothes, he was obliged to.
‘Mr Ian has the co-ordinates and will hand them out in due course. You all have maps already. That’s good, because as of today, everything changes. No more fun and games.’
‘We’re ready,’ said Miles. ‘We just need to know where we’re going.’
‘Carry only what you need,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘You’ll be on your own and you don’t want to be bogged down with useless equipment. You must, however, take a field telephone.’
There was a murmur of disappointment. The telephones were heavy and cumbersome.
‘I will now hand over to the expert,’ said Captain Routon. ‘Mr Ian, sir?’
Mr Ian stood up and produced a metal box. ‘I’m going to give each group a sealed envelope,’ he said. ‘In the envelope you’ll find a map reference and a clue. You go to the map reference and when you get there – if you find the right place, that is – the clue will lead you to a box, just like this one. Inside it will be the co-ordinates of the finishing post, and you get to the finishing post as fast as you can. That’s where your teachers and I will be waiting.’
‘We’re not allowed to help you,’ said Captain Routon. ‘If you get lost, then you’re out of the game. You phone in for help, or come back to base.’
‘How can we get back here if we’re lost?’ said Millie.
‘Map-read,’ said Mr Ian, with contempt. ‘Failing that, you follow your eyeballs – you can see Flashing Tor for miles, however lost you are. That’s why we chose it.’
‘What if it’s night?’ said Oli.
‘You wait until day,’ said Eric. ‘Dimwit.’
‘What if it’s misty?’ said Sanjay. ‘Doctor Ellie, you told us the weather can turn in half an hour—’
‘Are you scared?’ asked Podma. ‘You come all this way, and suddenly you’re scared?’
‘I’m not scared, I’m just asking—’
‘You want to stay with the donkeys?’
‘Sanjay’s right to ask,’ said Doctor Ellie, mildly. ‘The weather systems round here are very unpredictable and when the mist comes down you don’t see anything. You don’t even try to move. Mr Ian, you’re our weather-man—’
‘It’s clear and bright.’
‘You just said it was unpredictable,’ said Miles. ‘So how can you predict it?’
Jacqueline said, ‘The man from the National Park said the weather was bad. He said—’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Mr Ian. ‘This isn’t a debate. This is a briefing, and my forecast is based on satellite photography and the advice of meteorological experts. Maybe you Ribblestrop children would find that hard to understand.’
‘Yeah,’ said Imagio. ‘We just use seaweed, man.’
‘We do a rain-dance,’ said Anjoli.
‘I pick my nose,’ said Podma. ‘That tells me everything, whether it’s wet, or dry, or—’
‘All right!’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘I think we can move on from the weather. What else is there to say?’
‘I need a word with my lot,’ said Mr Ian. ‘In the van, please, quick as you can.’
‘Special advice?’ said Millie. ‘I hope you’re not cheating, Mr Ian.’
There was laughter.
Mr Ian rounded on her, red in the face. ‘We actually take ourselves seriously, young lady, and try not to leave things to chance.’
Ribblestrop Forever! Page 22