“I saw Kessel! On the way in!”
“You would. It's the biggest town on the island. You can't miss it. You remember the flag I was sewing earlier—the crab and the star? That's a Kessel flag. It's for the harbor. They always have one at the end of the quay, but the wind gives them such a battering, they need replacing every year or so. Anyway, here's Kessel, and that is the main port. But the slavers use another place: Spittel Point. That is right down here”—she pointed to the southernmost tip of the island—“on the southern peninsula. And this bit of the island—this southeast corner—is where they do most of their trading. So that's where I would look.”
“But there must be thousands of women living down there. Even if the people are friendly—”
“They are! Believe me!” said Tansy. “This fear is just a passing thing.”
“How can I touch hands with thousands of women? Complete strangers? They'll think I'm mad.”
“You'll have to be charming! Chat to them. Ashenpeakers love to talk. Tell them you're visiting the island and you want to find members of your clan. That's reasonable enough. Once you know what clan you are, you can say, ‘I'm a Kippan'—or whatever—‘what are you?' If they don't match, you can bid them good day. If they do match, keep them talking and then, being friendly, take their hand in both your own and start shaking it, like you're saying goodbye. ‘It's been lovely talking to you'—that kind of thing. Keep on talking till you've made good contact—that's important. Then let go and glance at your hand. It won't be as bright as the pattern you get from a formal touch, but it'll be enough. And if she's not your mother, you just go on to the next.”
“And the next. And the next. It could take months.”
“It could take years,” said Tansy. “You might never find her at all.”
“No—I will find her,” said Barkbelly. “If she is out there, I will find her. That's a promise.”
Chapter 50
arkbelly walked on through the midday sun. Two days had passed since his meeting with Tansy and in that time he had barely seen anyone. There were few farms and he was wary of approaching them, despite Tansy's promise that Ashenpeakers were friendly at heart.
The road was leading him toward a copse. He would welcome the shade. But there was a cottage chimney rising above the canopy of leaves. He would have to be careful.
He entered the cool of the copse and heard the sound of running water. The road was meandering over a small stone bridge, with a stream clattering beneath.
Barkbelly went down to the water's edge and drank deeply. Then he washed his hands and his face, and was just about to pull off his boots when he heard giggling. Two children—a boy and a girl—were sitting in the shadow of the bridge. The boy was younger than he was. Only a few months old, he guessed. The girl was younger still. A baby. But Barkbelly had an idea.
“Do you want to play a game?” he said.
The boy nodded.
“Great!” said Barkbelly, clambering over the pebbles toward them. “Let's play touch!” And he wiggled his fingers in the air. The boy mirrored him, smiling. Barkbelly held his hand still and the boy made contact.
“It's tingling,” said the boy, and he laughed.
Barkbelly nodded, then he took a deep breath and pulled his hand away.
“Brown!” said the boy, and he laughed again.
“What clan are you?” said Barkbelly.
But the boy wasn't listening. He was holding up the little girl's hand and touching her fingers.
“What clan are you?”
Still no answer.
“Tingle!” cried the little girl. “Tingle!”
Barkbelly turned away in despair.
“Brown!” cried the boy.
Brown?
“It should be green,” said Barkbelly, turning round. “She's your sister.”
“No!” squealed the boy. “You're silly! She's not my sister. She's my friend.”
Barkbelly's heart lurched inside him. “Give me your hand,” he said to the little girl. “Like this.” He touched her fingers.
“Tingle!” cried the little girl. “Tingle! Tingle! Tingle!”
Barkbelly broke contact and looked at his palm. It was green. Bright leaf green. The pattern was unbelievably clear. Every line was glowing. Every swirl. Every whorl. Every flourish.
“What clan are you?”
“Tingle!” said the little girl. “Again! Again!”
“What clan is she?” he asked the boy.
The boy frowned. “Don't know.”
“You must know!”
The boy shook his head. Barkbelly seized the little girl by her arms. “What's your clan?” he said. He started to shake her.
“What is it?”
The little girl stared at him like a rabbit.
“What's your clan?”
Her tiny face crumpled. She sucked in all the air around her and cried, “Dada!”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” said Barkbelly, desperately trying to calm her. “I just want to know.”
“Dada!”
Suddenly Barkbelly was grabbed from behind and thrown into the stream. At first he floundered, but then he spun himself over. Spat out a mouthful of mud. Glared at the man towering above him.
“What do you think you're doing, lad?”
“I was just trying to ask her something.”
“She is three days old! She knows nothing!”
“But I just want—”
“I know what you want! We've heard the rumors. The slavers can't get enough eggs, so they're stealing little 'uns. You're working for them, aren't you? Coming on ahead. Sniffing round. Asking questions. Well, you won't get my daughter! I will die first! So get out of here!” And he picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them right into Barkbelly's face. “Go on, before you get my boot up your bony backside!”
Barkbelly staggered to his feet. His eye was watering; one of the pebbles had bruised it.
“Go on! Or I swear I will smack you in the face. And your nose won't argue with prime Pellan fist.”
Barkbelly stumbled out of the stream, staggered over the bridge and started running. His eye was watering now. He wanted to bathe it but he couldn't stop. Not yet.
He ran until he reached another bridge, then he came off the road and threw himself down in the shadows beneath it.
“That was dirty fighting,” he said to himself as he bathed his eye. “Chucking pebbles. If he had thrown a punch, I wouldn't have seen it coming.”
He decided to rest awhile. He knew he was in shock. He was starting to laugh about it all and it wasn't funny.
“‘You'll get my boot up your bony backside!'” he said, mimicking the man's gruff accent. “‘Your nose won't argue with prime Pellan fist!'”
He caught his breath. Pellan fist? His heart started to thump in his chest. Think carefully, now. The man said the little girl was his daughter…so they would be the same clan. Pellan. And he had clan-matched the daughter.
Barkbelly sank back against the bridge.
“Blessed moons,” he said. “I'm a Pellan.”
Chapter 51
arkbelly traveled and talked his way south. Now that he knew his clan, he could follow Tansy's advice. In every village, in every hamlet, at every lonely farmhouse and cottage, to every wayfaring woman he met, he said the same thing: Hello! Can you help me? I'm a visitor to the island and I'm ever so keen to meet fellow clan members. Are you a Pellan by any chance? And usually it worked. Tansy was right: Ashenpeakers were friendly folk. The northerners had just been scared. Farther south, where traders were commonplace, the islanders were incredibly warm. The women chattered like parrots, wanting to know all kinds of things about the world beyond. If they weren't Pellan, they would direct him to a home that was. If they were, they warmly shook his offered hand and frequently invited him in for tea.
But as the days became weeks, Barkbelly started to lose heart. His conversations became longer as he delayed contact, dreading the disappointment of another gree
n palm. Sometimes he couldn't bear to look at his hand afterward. His pain was painted there in a pattern of failure. But still he traveled on.
But one day, quite unexpectedly, his spirits were lifted.
He was wandering aimlessly along, head down, hands in pockets, when he glanced up and said, “Great. Just great. I'm hungry, I'm tired, I have a hole in my boot and now I have a hill to climb. The day just keeps getting better.”
He walked on, cursing his misfortune as he went. But when he reached the top of the hill, he forgot his troubles in an instant. Because there, stretched out before him like a treasure map, was the southern peninsula. It was long—so long, he couldn't see an end to it. But he could see both coasts and ships far out to sea; a scattering of villages and wildwoods; lots of windmills and straight roads latticing the land.
He was so captivated by the sight, he sat on the hill until it was dark. He wanted to watch the shadows creep over the land. He wanted to see the lights shimmer around the coastline like a necklace. And when they did, he felt close to happiness.
In the glow of one of those lamps sat his family.
Chapter 52
“his is a diamond day!” said Barkbelly to himself. “Sparkling. Bright. Clear with a hint of blue round the edges. Perfect!”
He had been searching on the peninsula for five days. One disappointment had followed another, but the fine weather had buoyed his spirits. Now, bouncing along a cliff-top path, he felt deliriously happy. He grinned at the cows in the adjoining field. He knocked the heads off the thistles. But one thing was niggling him. That ship sailing toward the horizon—what was it carrying? Spittel Point was close…. He tried not to think about it and turned his attention to the path ahead. There was a woman approaching with a huge wicker basket hooked over one arm.
Could it be a slaver? He looked at the ship again. It was a clipper. Three-masted, fast … she would be perfect for a quick run to Farrago. She could outrace anything.
He was so lost in thought, he didn't see the bull breaking through the fence behind him. But he did hear the farmer shout, “Look out there!” and suddenly the beast ran by him in a flurry of hoof and horn and careered down the path toward the Basket Woman and she didn't see it because she'd stopped to pick flowers and it smacked her on her backside and her basket went one way and she went the other and she flew through the air like a puffin and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.
“Whoa!” said Barkbelly, and he ran to where she had fallen and peered over.
He saw a storm of gulls—shouting, wheeling, dive-bombing gulls—and waves, far, far below, foaming and snarling against the rocks. But, miraculously, the woman was still there, desperately dangling from a windblown tree. And when she saw him, hope fluttered in her eyes like a moth in a jam jar.
“Help me,” she said. “Please. Help me.”
Barkbelly flattened himself against the ground and wriggled forward. He reached down as far as he could, stretched out his hand—and drew it back. I can't help her. She'll pull me over.
“Help me!” said the woman again, and she held out her hand to him.
He was just about to say I can't, when he felt his legs being gripped and a man's voice said, “I've got you, boy!”
So he reached down again, stretched out his fingers and seized the woman's hand. “Pull!” he shouted to the man up top, and the man did pull, harder and harder, until both bodies were safely back, lying in a tangled mess of limbs.
“Thank you,” said the woman. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” said Barkbelly, and gingerly he picked himself up. Oh! He ached all over. He'd stretched so far, he could swear he was taller, and he had terrible tingles up and down his right arm.
“Look at the state of your clothes!” said the farmer. “Your mama will have somethin' to say to you!”
“If she does,” said Barkbelly quietly, “she can say it now.”
He was staring at the palm of his hand. It had turned black.
Chapter 53
“ama?” The woman said nothing. She wasn't listening. She was fretting over a rip in her skirt.
“Mama?” Barkbelly caught her by the arm. “Are you my mama?”
“No,” said the woman. “I've never seen you before in my life.”
Barkbelly took hold of her hand. The pattern on her palm was black as treacle.
“Then how do you explain this?” he said, holding her hand up in front of her face. “And this.” He showed his own blackened palm.
“Who are you?” said the woman, seeming nervous now. “How did you get here?”
“By ship. I've come to find you. I'm your son, Barkbelly.”
The woman pulled her hand away and cradled it. She turned away and looked out to sea, trawling for answers but finding none. “I don't know what to say,” she said at last. “This has never happened before. I don't know what to do.”
Barkbelly wanted to give her time to think, but his head was full of questions.
“Do you have a family?” he said.
The woman nodded.
“Do I have brothers? Sisters?”
She nodded again.
“I'll be off!” said the farmer, shattering the moment. “Got to find that bull o' mine.”
“Thanks,” said Barkbelly. “For your help, I mean.”
The farmer slapped him on his back and strode away.
“You'd best come home,” said the woman. “Have some dinner.”
Barkbelly's heart melted like chocolate. He wanted to shout, scream, jump in the air, grab hold of his mother, kiss her, hug her, shake her. But he didn't. Somehow he didn't feel she would welcome such things.
“My basket,” said his mother, looking around.
“I'll find it for you,” said Barkbelly, and he did. It was caught up in a tangle of brambles and all around were strange creatures he had never seen before. Bright red balls, bigger than his fist and covered in spikes. And except for the fact that they didn't have heads or legs, he would swear they were hedgehogs.
“Thank you,” said his mother, taking the basket from him. She tossed the spiky bundles into it.
“What are these things called?” said Barkbelly.
“Sea urchins.”
“Really? Are they alive?”
“Yes,” said his mother, “but not for long. These are your dinner.”
Chapter 54
arkbelly's mother led him back along the path the way he had come, but suddenly she turned down a track between two fields. Then they went over a hillock and Barkbelly saw a handful of houses below.
“That's my house,” said his mother, and she pointed to a lopsided cottage on the edge of the village. “It's small but it's home.”
As they drew near, Barkbelly saw that the cottage was made of pebbles bound together with cement and built up like a sandcastle. It was square and sturdy, with a well-tended garden behind.
His mother opened the front door and they went inside. There was no hall: they stepped straight into a kitchen–cum–living room, sparsely furnished but comfortable enough. Rows of socks, big and small, dangled from a line over the stove. A vase of wildflowers brightened the window ledge. Someone had been shelling peas at the kitchen table. Someone had left boots in the middle of the floor. Someone had forgotten to put the butter away after breakfast. And seeing these things, so familiar and yet so different, gave Barkbelly the strangest of sensations. This was his home, but he felt he was intruding. It was all so real. So personal and intimate. So vulnerable. These people knew nothing of him, the stolen son, and he might change their lives forever.
His mother was bustling around the kitchen, tidying up. “Can you—I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name—can you bring in some water from the well at the back?”
“Yes, Mama,” said Barkbelly.
“And—what is your name? Right. Barkbelly. Can you call me something else? It feels… weird, you calling me Mama. Call me Rue. That's my name—Rue Bufton.”
Barkbelly fetched the water and Rue m
ade him tea. Then he sat in a chair by the stove while she prepared dinner. He soon realized that Rue was more comfortable when she had something to do. Her tongue was looser if she didn't look at him. She answered his questions. She told him he had two sisters and one brother, though she had to ask him how old he was before she could say whether his sisters were older or younger. Barkbelly found that curious but he didn't say so, and he didn't ask about the night he was stolen. That could wait until the right time. Instead, he talked about his life and his journey. But Rue didn't seem particularly interested—until he described the circus. She actually stopped what she was doing when he talked about Candy.
“Just fancy that,” she said, misty-eyed. “She made her dreams come true. Just fancy that.”
Barkbelly talked on, happy to have found something that interested her. He was still talking when the door opened and his father came in.
It had to be his father: he had Barkbelly's face. Not just his features but his expression and the tilt of his head—it was like seeing the future. And behind him came Barkbelly's sisters, one of them carrying a toddler.
“Who's this?” said his father.
“It's Barkbelly,” said Rue. “Come from overseas. He's your son.”
“You're sitting in my chair,” said the man, and he stood over Barkbelly, waiting for him to move. As soon as he did, the man sat down, stretched and closed his eyes.
“He's called Dill,” said Rue, “and this”—she took hold of the toddler—“is Bay. And these are your sisters, Hyssop and Comfrey. Girls—this is your brother, Barkbelly.”
“I don't have a big brother!” said Comfrey, the smaller girl. “You do now,” said Rue. “Go and get cleaned up. Dinner's nearly ready.”
Ten minutes later, the whole family sat down together to eat and Barkbelly thought he would burst with happiness. This was it: the homecoming dinner he had dreamed about for so many months. He had found peace. He was complete. He was back where he belonged. His new life was beginning right here, in this moment. So why was no one else excited? Why was no one interested in what he had to say? He had traveled halfway around the world to find these people, but they were discussing carrots. Should they grow them this year? Would parsnips be better?
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