“Oh, yes,” said Pot. “And all of them were champions.” He picked a medal out of the pile still to be polished. “This one here was won by Blackbriar, Bramble's mother. And this one”—he fished out another—“was won by her father, Quill.”
“Where are they now? Bramble's parents?”
Pot's eyes clouded. He put down the medals and fumbled in his pocket for his pipe. He filled it and lit it and puffed in silence awhile.
“They're gone,” he said at last. “There was a sickness came across the land. No one knew what it was or where it came from. It fell like a shadow. It didn't affect all the urchins, mind—just certain breeds. The Golden-Spikes seemed to be especially vulnerable, and Muckledown had about thirty of them at the time: a couple of boars, a dozen breeding sows and loads of newborn hoglets. They all died, one by one, except for Bramble and Thorn.” The old man sighed and sucked hard upon his pipe. “I don't know how those two survived, but they did. A right pair of fighters, they were!”
“Was Thorn Bramble's brother?” asked Barkbelly.
“No. Thorn was from another litter. He was her mate. They were inseparable. And I have to say, he was the finest urchin I have ever seen. He was glorious. And what a champion! He was unstoppable. Thorn won the Urchin Cup five years running. He won it last year. And he would win it again this year, easy, if he were still here.”
“Did he die?” Barkbelly held his breath, waiting for the answer.
“Die? No, lad! He escaped!”
Chapter 11
t was a disappointing day. Instead of the promised sunshine, the sky was sodden with rain. Barkbelly hurried to work through the dripping wood with his shoulders hunched, his head down and his hands in his pockets. He was walking so fast that he had collided with the urchin before he knew it was there. He staggered back. Thorn bristled, his treacherous spikes rising like lances. His piggy eyes glittered.
Barkbelly stood quite still. Pot was right. Thorn was glorious: the most magnificent urchin Barkbelly had ever seen. He was leaner than Bramble and a shade lighter, but other than that he looked like her twin.
Thorn snorted and ambled closer. Then he did a curious thing. He put his snout into Barkbelly's palm and rubbed it up and down. He started to dribble, but still he rubbed, until the thick spittle was smeared all over Barkbelly's fingers. Then he sneezed, looked Barkbelly straight in the eyes and wandered off into the greenwood.
Barkbelly walked on. Thoughts whirred around his wooden head. Here was a dilemma! He wanted to ask Pot to explain the urchin's strange behavior, but then the secret would be out. Thorn would be hunted down before the day was through.
He was still lost in thought when he reached the farm. His first job of the day was Flea Inspection. Without even thinking what he was doing, he went straight to Bramble's pen, reached out to stroke her furry nose and—thump!—hit the floor with Bramble on top of him. She was whimpering and snorting, pummeling him with her paws, licking his hand over and over and over, delirious with the scent of her beloved Thorn.
Barkbelly started to giggle. Any other boy would have been crushed by her heftiness, but he was just tickled. He could hear her purring and humming, and when he suddenly cried out, “Enough! Enough!” and she stopped, he saw that the sadness had gone from her eyes. They shone, like the sun bursting through the clouds on a gray day. What was lost had been found.
And in that moment, Barkbelly saw that she was so beautiful and so wild, so desperate and so caged. And he felt his heart thumping against his wooden chest like a bear in a barrel.
He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 12
he cloud cover thickened throughout the day and by nightfall the temperature had plummeted. It seemed that nature too was plotting, keeping everyone indoors, far away from the sties.
Barkbelly clambered out of his bedroom window while his parents sat below, hugging the fire. He slunk through Ferny Wood, listening for sounds coming from the under- growth, but there was nothing unusual. Just falling leaves and restless rooks. But Barkbelly knew his every move was being shadowed by Thorn. He was out there, watching and waiting.
Muckledown Farm was asleep. The farmer and his family, the workers—everyone. Only the farm dogs stirred as Barkbelly approached, and as soon as they saw who it was, they wagged their tails and dropped their heads back onto their paws.
Barkbelly crept toward the urchin sties. Every door had a painted nameplate: Thistle… Prickler… Spike… Blister… Conker…Teasel… Bramble. Barkbelly slid back the bolt on Bramble's door, eased it open and there she was, anxiously sniffing the air. But then she caught a scent—long remembered, much loved—and suddenly she ran, across the yard and into the wood.
Barkbelly shut the sty door and slid back the bolt, then he too slipped into the shadows.
Halfway home, the clouds parted to reveal a silver moon, pale as a coin. Suddenly the wood was bathed in light. Shadows were caught behind every tree. And ahead on the path the urchins were waiting. Their eyes glittered, and Barkbelly saw that Bramble's eyes now had the same wild defiance as Thorn's. Fleetingly they seemed to soften, and Barkbelly couldn't be sure whether it was just a trick of the moonlight, but Bramble seemed to nod at him. Then both urchins pattered off into the shadows and were gone.
When Barkbelly arrived at work the next day, he found the place in chaos. Brick, Shoe and Saddle had been sent to search the woods. Nail was examining the mud in the lane for footprints. Missus Muckledown was putting a dish of Bramble's favorite food into her sty, hoping it would tempt her back. Farmer Muckledown was stomping around with dust storms at his heels. Pot was brewing up endless tea. Barkbelly was sent to feed the hoglets, with orders to return at ten o'clock sharp for a meeting in the hay barn.
At the meeting, Farmer Muckledown shared his thoughts. “I reckon Bramble was stolen,” he said grimly. “I know it's hard to believe, but what other explanation is there? I inspected the sties myself, just before I turned in for the night. That was around eleven o'clock. Every sty was secured; every bolt was fastened. So you, Barkbelly”—he pointed a thick finger and Barkbelly was trapped like a moth in a light beam—“you have nothing to feel guilty about. I know you were the last one in the sty with her, but you did slide the bolt back firmly. I checked. No, my friends, Bramble didn't push her way out. Someone let her out. There are plenty of people around here who know that Bramble is my best hope of winning the Urchin Cup, and plenty who are tired of my winning, year after year. And people will do dark deeds in the pursuit of glory. That's all I'm saying.”
“What are you going to do if she's gone for good?” said Nail Adams.
“Well, we'll still be going to the show, m'lads! Don't you worry about that! We still have Thistle and Prickler. They can both win Best of Breed. They won't win the cup—you need something really special for that—but they're good urchins. And I have high hopes for little Tiddler winning Hoglet of the Year. So even without Bramble, we'll still have a good time at the show.”
And they did. Thistle won Best of Breed. Little Tiddler won Hoglet of the Year. Farmer Muckledown was consoled for the loss of Bramble with several free pints of nettle beer in the refreshment tent. Barkbelly even saw Rope Daniels, the man with one leg.
Finally the time came to award the Urchin Cup. It went to Rapier, a magnificent Sable-Spiked Wood Hog from the famous Marshgold Farm. Barkbelly was standing beside Farmer Muckledown when the cup was presented.
“He's a first-class specimen, that Rapier,” said the farmer. “I can't deny it. But my Bramble was even better. And I can't think of anywhere I would rather see her right now than standing up there with a winner's rosette on her. Can you?”
Barkbelly closed his eyes. He could picture her in the forest with Thorn by her side. She was dappled with sunlight and munching a mouthful of acorns.
“No,” he said. “I can't.” And he smiled.
Chapter 13
ummer was over. The long golden descent into winter had begun. A troublesome wind whipped across the playground and ratt
led the leaves in the lane. The bell rang to signal the start of playtime and everyone stormed out.
In one corner of the playground, the tinies started their singing games, skipping in happy circles. Behind the wood store, the older girls were giggling like imps. Petticoat Palmer had stolen her sister's diary and was sharing its secrets. Missus O'Leary was on duty, but as usual she was living up to her nickname. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She sighed. She sipped tea. She ignored the little ones tugging at her skirt. Nothing mattered to Weary O'Leary when she was on duty.
The boys were playing Bull Run and were already on their third round. Fish had been on first, followed by Dipper. Tie Donahue was on next, but as Tie stepped forward, Barkbelly declared that he wanted to be on.
“It's my turn,” said Tie, a stocky lad with tousled hair and a coat held together with string. “You'll get your turn later.”
“Ah, but I won't, will I?” growled Barkbelly. “I won't. You will. And Moth… and Ham… and Log… even Little Pan Evans. But I won't, because I never do.”
“C'mon, Bark,” said Fish, trying to calm things down. “You know why. It wouldn't be fair. We wouldn't stand a chance. Especially not these.” He pointed at Sprout Wallace and Little Pan Evans.
“But it's not fair to me,” Barkbelly complained. “I know I'm stronger than the rest of you—”
“It takes all of us to bring you down!” interrupted Tie, wanting to get on with it.
“But I can tone it down a bit. Not try too hard. What do you think?”
Everyone looked at him. He was so hopeful, so puppyish, that no one had the heart to tell him what they were thinking.
“What do you think, Fish?” asked Little Pan Evans.
“Don't bring me into this!” cried Fish. “I'm not saying a word. I'm biased. He's my best mate.”
“Am I?” said Barkbelly. “Wow. Thanks, Fish.”
“So you think he should have a go?” said Tie.
“I didn't say that!” said Fish.
“You didn't have to,” said Ham Malone. “We know what you're thinking.”
“Then why are you asking me?” cried Fish. “Honestly!” He shook his head and started to walk away, but then he came back. “If you don't get on with it, there won't be any time left for another round.”
This was true.
“Well…,” said Moth slowly. “You could have just one go….”
“Yes!” cried Barkbelly triumphantly.
“No!” wailed Tie. “That's not fair. It was my turn!” And he stormed off and started kicking the bench, muttering angrily to himself.
The lads ignored him and lined up: Moth Williams, Sprout Wallace, Fish Patterson, Spoon Hardy, Needle Morgan, Ham Malone, Log Worthing, Dipper Dean and Little Pan Evans.
Barkbelly faced them, barring the way. He crouched down like a wrestler and stretched out his arms, ready to tackle the runners. The lads looked at him, worried. Barkbelly seemed deadly serious. There was no sign of him toning it down. He was like an enormous wooden crab, with snapping pincers and glittering eyes. They were minnows, swimming into the jaws of death. They braced themselves.
“Bull Run!” cried Barkbelly, and they were off, running wildly across the pitch toward the safety of the wall, swerving round his terrible wooden fists, vaulting over his loggy legs.
But Moth was caught. He struggled. He fought. He pummeled his fists against Barkbelly's chest. He kicked his wooden shins, but it was no use. He surrendered.
So now there were two of them on. The lads lined up again. Barkbelly and Moth huddled together, whispering and plotting. Then they crouched down and cried, “Bull Run!” and everyone ran.
They went straight for Dipper. He didn't stand a chance. Moth butted him like an angry ram, winding him completely, and while Dipper stood there gasping, Barkbelly grabbed his arms. He had to give in.
More whispering and plotting. The chasers chose their next victim. Barkbelly crouched, flanked now by Dipper and Moth.
“Bull Run!” they cried in unison, and the Bull Runners ran.
In an instant, it was clear they wanted Log. They ran at him from all sides: six arms, six legs, three bodies, with only one brain between them. Their eyes burned. Their arms pumped. Their feet pounded. Barkbelly was in front, wild with excitement, thundering on blindly, not seeing—not seeing Little Pan Evans. Little Pan Evans, running to the faraway safety of the wall. Head down, sightless, determined.
Barkbelly hit him like a hammer.
Little Pan Evans soared through the air and fell like a sack of potatoes. The gang heard the deadly crack of a skull against gravel, a stomach-turning thud as his head hit the ground. Then silence.
The game stopped. Everyone gathered round. Little Pan Evans was lying facedown, completely still. No one said anything. Dipper squatted and turned the body over. There was blood. Endless blood. Someone screamed.
“He's dead,” said Dipper. “He's dead. You've killed him.”
Barkbelly stared in horror. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. Little Pan Evans was dead.
Suddenly the playground was in chaos. There were screams and shouts. People pointing and crying. Missus O'Leary was coming over.
“You've killed him,” said Dipper again. He stood up. There was blood on his hands and on his coat. His face was twisting into a mask of anger. “He's dead!” he shouted, and he pushed Barkbelly away from the body. “He's dead, you murderin' freak!”
Still Barkbelly said nothing. He saw heads turning away from the body, toward him. He saw glazed faces. Tears and terror. Fear and mistrust.
“Run,” whispered a voice beside him. Fish. “Run.”
Barkbelly didn't move. He couldn't.
“Run!” Fish grabbed hold of Barkbelly's arm and shook it violently. “Run!” he wailed, and Barkbelly heard the desperation in his voice. “Go! Before they come.”
Barkbelly turned and looked into his friend's eyes. He saw panic and fear.
“Where can I go?” he asked stupidly.
“I don't know!” cried Fish. “Just go! Run! Now! Please!”
And as Barkbelly gazed at Fish, he felt a sudden sharp pain cutting deep into his chest. His heart was splintering.
“I don't want to go,” he whispered.
“You must. They won't understand. They'll say you're a murderer. Dipper's doing it already and he's supposed to be your friend. Please, Bark, just go. Do it for me. Please.”
So Barkbelly turned, and he ran.
PART TWO
Chapter 14
arkbelly ran on through the afternoon. He ran through woods and over fields, across streams and over stiles. He didn't stop. If he stopped, he would think, and that was something he didn't want to do.
When dusk fell, he was in rich farmland. The fields were fat with cows and there was a farm ahead with a jumble of out- buildings. He could find food there if he was careful. The farm dogs wouldn't catch him. He had no human smell to color the wind.
He waited till it was truly dark, then crept closer. Very quietly, he opened a wooden door and entered. He was in a dairy with white tiled walls and a well-swept floor. A cool marble slab, piled high with butter and cheeses, ran along one side of the room. There were silver pails covered with thick wooden lids. Lifting one, he found milk, yellowy with cream.
He began to drink. The milk was good; he could feel the strength returning to his spent legs. But it reminded him of home. Of his mother, singing softly as she milked the family cow. Of his father, drinking straight from the pail, his mustache dripping with milk drops. And, there in the dark, Barkbelly suddenly longed to cry. He rubbed his eyes and held his breath—but the tears refused to fall. Why? When he wanted them so badly? They could roll down his cheeks, splash into the milk and salt the sweet goodness—he wouldn't care as long as they washed away the pain of being a murderer: lost, alone and far from home.
But even murderers need to sleep. And eat! Barkbelly was ravenous. He took two round cheeses and retired to the milking shed next door. T
here he slept, curled up on a pile of hay.
When morning came, the sound of opening doors woke him, and as the cows ambled in, pearled with dew, he slipped out of a side door and disappeared into the morning mist.
Barkbelly ran for seven days and nights. Sometimes he worried he was running round in circles, like a rat in a wheelcage. Farms, roads, barns… they all looked endlessly familiar. He was desperately tired, and scared that in his weariness he would blunder back into his own village. But he couldn't sleep. He was haunted by nightmares of Little Pan Evans, lying in a pool of blood. Even when he ran there was no real escape. Running reminded him of the playground and Bull Run and… Little Pan Evans. How he had loved to play alongside the bigger boys! Fish had always told him, “Pan, you're too small to play with us. You'll get hurt one day.” But he wouldn't listen. And now he was dead.
On the eighth day, Barkbelly found he couldn't run any farther. He still had the strength, but the will to run had gone. He had slept fitfully all night, and when he awoke, his head was throbbing with questions. Where was he running to? Should he stop? Had he run far enough?
He didn't know, but sitting in the morning sunshine, he listened to his heart. And it seemed to say yes. Yes, you have run far enough. You are tired of running. Stop now. You can't run forever.
He stood up and stretched. He was halfway up a hill. I might as well go up as down.
He began to climb. The hill was steeper than it looked and he was panting and cursing as he reached the summit. But when he saw the view, the curses died on his tongue. The land fell away into an immense floodplain, ringed by mountains. A river shimmered through it like a dropped necklace. But his eyes were drawn to something far more interesting: a boom- town. A great gray mass of factories and homes, built on hope and ambition. Roads riddled it. Furnaces fired it. A thick pall of smoke hovered over the sprawl like an avenging ghost.
Barkbelly knew of this place. Travelers told tales about a dark town where people lived in squalor and labored like harness rats. Every Pumbleditcher had heard them. But they were just stories, weren't they? No one believed such a place could exist.
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