Toby Alone

by Timothee de Fombelle

  It had happened in the spider’s web, just after Mano’s big jump. He’d been caught at the last moment by Toby, who was hanging from his rope.

  One on top of the other, they made their descent down the silk cable. After a few minutes, Mano had said, “We’ve got to the bottom.”

  “Perfect,” replied Toby. “Climb on to the branch.”

  “But—”

  “Hurry up!”

  “There isn’t any branch…”

  The rope was far too short. The branch was still lower down, and by some way. What was to be done? If they let go of the rope their bodies would smash into smithereens on landing. If they climbed back up they would soon be face to face with the spider.

  Time was ticking away. They were dangling in midair, and starting to run out of stamina. Toby spoke first.

  “In times of grave danger, it’s a good idea to make some promises. And our chances are so slim, we should make them serious ones…”

  “If we survive,” said Mano, “I’ll…”

  Mano hesitated: he was trying to understand what had changed in him.

  “If we make it, I’ll never be the same again.”

  He had climbed back up to Toby’s level, and their foreheads were touching. He opened his eyes.

  “If we survive, I won’t be frightened of anything ever again … I’ll be the kind of man who’s always braaaaavvve. Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!”

  He had cried out in utter terror. There, bang in front of him, was the black widow’s giant sucker, ready to gobble him up. The spider’s hard eyes drilled a hole in the darkness.

  Hunger had made her go after them, and she was now at the end of the thread she was weaving in order to lower herself down. Her legs alone were fifty times the size of Toby’s.

  Mano was the first to react.

  “Climb back up, Toby, I’ll take care of her.”

  He had got out his knife and was waving it around like a windmill blade.

  Toby called out, “I’m staying with you.”

  He took a long hard swing and the black widow must have realised her snack wasn’t going to let itself be swallowed like a defenceless biscuit. She retracted her legs when Mano’s knife got too close, but instantly shot them back out again, like arrows.

  She was a hairy monster of a spider, and getting increasingly agitated. But Toby still called out, “She looks like my granny!”

  It wasn’t a fair fight. The spider must have been offended by Toby’s comparison, because she lashed out mercilessly with her legs. She was going to knock them out, kill them, and suck them up, drop by drop, with her sticky sucker.

  “What was your promise again?” roared Toby.

  “To be brave!”

  As Mano sliced the air with his knife, Toby caught his eye. “So far, you’re keeping your promise, Mano!”

  One of the spider’s extended legs lashed out against the friends’ silk rope. There was a sudden jolt. Toby and Mano slid down at least a millimetre. A second later, their rope dropped another level. The black widow was poised to attack.

  “Move, Mano, wiggle about as much as you can! We have to pull on our rope!”

  The rope was starting to drop down in violent jerks. Toby realised that the web their rope was attached to was unravelling – just as when you pull on someone’s knitting. The spider had no idea what was going on. She lay there, watching two appetising morsels of meat disappear below her.

  At last, the rope unwound like a ball of wool. The spider tried to climb back up before her web was reduced to nothing but a gaping hole.

  By some miracle, the two friends bounced on a leaf and came to a halt. Mano looked at Toby in the shadow.

  “Where are we?”

  Toby screwed up his eyes to see more clearly, but it was the gentle smells of damp and mushrooms that meant he could announce, “We’re here. We’re in the Low Branches.”

  An hour later, they reached Seldor.

  When Toby left Seldor a bit later, on his way to the Olmechs’ mill, he deliberately took his time. The landscape of the Low Branches made him forget how tired he was. Crickets darted across his path. He dislodged a big fly laying its eggs. He walked with his arms open wide, so he could fill his lungs with the air from his own country again. He slid between creepers, recognising green bark hills and watery caves.

  Eventually, he allowed himself to think about his parents. His spirit lifted and his chest swelled.

  Sim and Maya Lolness were prisoners, chained somewhere in the Heights. Would they ever see the Low Branches again? Toby wanted to believe they would.

  He whispered to his parents, across that great divide, “I’m well. And I’m waiting for you.”

  It was a postcard written in the air. Toby imagined a warm breeze rising, or else the secret flow of crude sap, carrying his words up there.

  And sure enough, up in a stinking dungeon, a man turned towards his wife. He looked painfully thin. His ripped shirt was buttoned all the way up. He was standing tall on a rotten twig. Through the bars, he could see a guard in a hat snoring before his moss beer.

  The woman held her hands together on her dirty dress. Her eyes were dry, because she had no more tears left.

  The man said, “My pretty Maya…”

  The woman didn’t answer, but the words felt like a warm shawl over her shoulders.

  “Mother Maya, I think our son is doing well.”

  He put his arm round his wife’s waist.

  Sim Lolness was smiling.

  15

  The Mill

  When she saw Toby, Mrs Olmech let out a series of shrieks and quickly climbed onto a chair. A funny kind of welcome for an exhausted thirteen-year-old friend.

  Toby had arrived at about ten o’clock in the morning. He was expecting to find everybody at home. When it’s been raining, millers don’t go out to collect leaves for grinding. Damp leaves produce a sort of porridge, which bears no resemblance to the fine leaf flour used to make white bread and dainty cakes.

  But Mrs Olmech was all alone in her kitchen. She was busy sponging down the leaf cart. It was grey, a sort of box on wheels, with one opening at the top, and another underneath to unload the chopped leaves into the cellar.

  Eventually, she stopped squealing.

  “But … what … what are you doing here?”

  Toby ran his hand across his face.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs Olmech. I need your help.”

  “I… My husband isn’t here. I don’t know … what do you want, little one?”

  “What about your son? Isn’t he here either?”

  Mrs Olmech got down off her chair.

  “Lex left this morning, he’ll be back tomorrow. He went to get the egg supplies from much lower down.”

  Toby gave a start.

  “Right at the bottom?”

  “Near to the Border…”

  “Ah…”

  “He’s gone to the Lee household. Elisha Lee and her mother.”

  “Ah…” Toby said again.

  “We’re stocking up for winter. The worm beetles have laid their eggs. But, tell me, what are you—”

  “Are they well?”

  “Who? The worm beetles?”

  “Elisha and her mother…”

  “I think so. I don’t really know.”

  Toby gave a long sigh.

  “What do you want, little one?” asked Mother Olmech, leaning over him.

  All of a sudden, Toby felt the urge to take to his heels and run straight to Elisha. He was silent for a moment. His eyes grew heavy and he stumbled.

  The woman pushed a chair towards him. He remained upright, clinging on to the back of the chair. The tiredness was kicking in now. Mother Olmech said, “I thought you were in the Treetop. People have been talking about the Lolness family. They say you’ve had problems.”

  “I need to rest until tomorrow,” Toby blurted.

  “Well, the thing is, that’s not very convenient for us; we’ve only got two beds, you see.”

&nbs
p; If he hadn’t been so exhausted, Toby would have remembered that Lex’s bed was free, which meant there had to be another reason for Mrs Olmech not welcoming him, but instead he said, “I don’t want a bed. I just want to sleep in your cellar.”

  “But…”

  “That’s all I’m asking for … please. I’m…”

  The chair was shaking in his hand.

  “…tired.”

  Mrs Olmech pushed the leaf cart away to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. She opened it without saying a word. Toby slid halfway down. Before disappearing, he put in a last request.

  “Roll the cart back over the trapdoor. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I beg you.”

  Mrs Olmech stared at the boy’s washed-out eyes as he whispered, “Thank you.”

  The trapdoor closed over Toby’s head. He heard the cart being pushed back into place. A nice smell of flour greeted his nostrils. It reminded him of his mother and her warm bread. Thick buttered slices.

  One crumb later, he was asleep.

  Toby had no idea what time he woke up. While he was sleeping he thought he’d heard footsteps and raised voices above. He remembered someone flaring up into a temper, as if Father Olmech had been angry with his wife when he got back. But Toby put it down to a bad dream, because the house seemed calm enough now.

  Toby yawned and stretched. In the darkness he slid the bundle he’d brought from Seldor towards him. He wolfed down everything with great relish. He recognised the taste of the delicious Asseldor ingredients, the picnics they used to give him in the good old days, for the road: crusty turnovers, lice crisps, grasshopper pâtés so good they would make a grasshopper weep.

  Toby realised he hadn’t made a promise when the spider was bearing down on them. The pleasure he got from his meal made him vow to learn how to cook one day.

  He heard the cart being wheeled again. The trapdoor creaked and swung open. Toby saw the head of Mr Olmech appear. There was a big smile on his face.

  “Are you all right, little one? Lucille explained you wanted to rest here for a while. Stay as long as you want, little one. Would you like to eat something?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “Thank you, Mr Olmech. I’ve got what I need.”

  The father closed the trapdoor, but quickly opened it again. “In an hour or so, Lucille and I are going to set off to collect in the leaves before night falls. When we come back, we’ll give you something hot.”

  He shut the trapdoor. The cart slid back into position. Toby didn’t move in the pitch black of the cellar.

  Less than an hour later, the Olmechs put on their work vests and tucked their scythes into their belts. They slid the cart forward again, rapped three times on the trapdoor and Toby’s distant voice answered them.

  “We’ll be back soon,” said Father Olmech.

  And they left.

  Mrs Olmech went ahead, with her husband pushing the cart behind her. Just a few paces from the mill, there was a bulge in the bark, which marked the end of the garden.

  There, a hit squad of fifteen men was waiting.

  The Olmechs felt their legs buckle. Mrs Olmech turned to face her husband. He made his way over to the group. They were all wearing coats and hats.

  “Well?” asked one of the men.

  Father Olmech answered, “I… Everything’s as we agreed.”

  “The little one is in the cellar,” his wife added.

  The man rubbed his hands. He wasn’t even looking at Mr Olmech. Mrs Olmech took a step forwards.

  “What about the money? When will they give it to us?”

  Her question was greeted with loud guffaws, as if it was the punchline of a joke. The hit squad encircled the house.

  The Olmech parents went on their way. They were pushing the cart with crestfallen faces, and sweating profusely.

  “What have we done, Lucille? What have we done?”

  Joe Mitch’s hit squad was made up of his best men – which is to say, the worst. The cream of the bullies.

  Fifteen men who had been through crack training and who now assailed the mill from every angle, agile as dancers in tutus, but a lot better equipped. Every window, every door, every exit was guarded. One man even hung off a windmill blade.

  Joe Mitch would be very pleased. Everything looked set for capture at last.

  It only took a second for a flame-thrower to rip out the door. Four strapping men rushed in. They had crossbows on their shoulders. They surrounded the trapdoor. A fifth man arrived to open it. The others maintained security on the outside.

  The trapdoor sprung open with the blow from the club. The four crossbows were aiming into the black hole of the cellar. Not a sound. Toby must have dropped off to sleep again. All the hit squad needed to do was scoop him up.

  The chief was the first to jump in. He raised his flare and saw the huge pile of flour that filled most of the room. Nothing else.

  The man smiled. He’d anticipated everything. He got a few men to come down and join him. Using forks, they began to forage around in the flour, waiting for the yelp of pain that would signal the fugitive’s presence.

  They spent an hour down there, with different groups taking it in turns to shift the flour in search of Toby.

  By the time the hour was up, it looked like there were fifteen snowmen down in the cellar. The men were coughing. Their mouths were lined with dough and their lungs were clogged. The flour clung to their eyes, their tongues, their ears. It crept into every orifice.

  The commando didn’t cut the dashing figure he had been on arrival. His head was covered in flour, and he was sneezing over his flare in a corner of the cellar. Suddenly, looking up, he discovered a few lines scrawled in charcoal on the wall. He raised his flame. They were four lines from a well-known nursery rhyme:

  I went down to the mill

  To give my belly a fill,

  But I didn’t find bread

  I found white lice instead.

  He stared at the words Toby had written clumsily in the pitch black of the cellar.

  His stooges came to join him, whiter than the lice and more floury than the bread in the song. They read the rhyme too. They watched their boss frown like a poor clown and stamp his feet in fury.

  After walking for a few minutes, the Olmechs stopped their cart at a bend in a dead branch. They sat down on a knot of wood. The rain from the day before had left puddles on the ground.

  “We’ve done something dreadful, Lucille.”

  “We’ve betrayed a twelve-year-old child who wanted to hide in our home.”

  Mrs Olmech started sobbing.

  “What will we tell Lex? He’d never have let us do it.”

  “Twelve years old?” asked a voice out of nowhere.

  Toby had decided it was time to get out of the cart. Astounded, the Olmechs slid to the ground in unison. Toby’s lightly powdered head peered out of the cart.

  “A twelve-year-old?” he asked again.

  It was like a scene from a puppet show, except that Toby had no desire to laugh. He fixed the millers with a stare that would have made the hardest wood shatter into a thousand pieces.

  His anger had been building up for an hour now, ever since Father Olmech had said that they were going to collect leaves. Collect leaves? On a rainy day? Did they take him for a fool? He’d instantly realised what was going on, and had slipped inside the cart via the trapdoor.

  Toby was still grinding the poor millers to a pulp with his stare.

  “For one thing, I’m not twelve. I’m thirteen. Even rotten old branches should be able to count. And—”

  Toby decided what was in store for the Olmechs was punishment enough. He didn’t need to add anything. Joe Mitch’s wrath was the price they would have to pay. Toby leapt out of the cart.

  “So long.”

  And off he went, as night fell.

  All Toby’s trust in his fellow beings, all the hope he had left, could have crumbled after the episode in the mill. But Toby still had the light of Elisha glowing ahead of him, so h
e decided not to make any further detours. He would go straight to his only friend.

  Earlier, he had thought about making a stop-off at Onessa and going to his parents’ house – for one more look at the place he should never have left. But he knew now he couldn’t risk stopping again.

  By the middle of the night, he was close to where Elisha lived. He crouched down on the bark embankment, placed his thumb on his teeth, and chirruped like a cicada. No movement from the house. He tried again three times.

  She was probably asleep. Toby didn’t dare carry on. He headed off towards a moss coppice, crossed it, reached a grainy bark slope on the other side and suddenly stopped when he saw the view. There was the lake, under the soft light of the setting crescent moon.

  A sense of peacefulness rose up inside Toby, and he rushed down the slope. His feet found familiar footholds. He was light as a feather, skimming the glowing wood with his feet.

  Toby sat down on the beach.

  A few big leaves had fallen into the lake, forming idyllic islands. Five nights earlier, he had been up there, in a hole in the bark, looking up at the sky. Now, the Tree was taking on its autumn colours. A russet-coloured light spread across the sky.

  His adventures could stop here.

  He would wait for his parents by the shores of this lake. They would turn up one day with their little cases, their coats over their arms.

  “Here we are…”

  “It took a while, but it’s over now,” his mother would say. “Life carries on, you know.”

  Toby was half dreaming as he lay there in his cove. But in a corner of his heart, the whirlwind of adventures still to come was already beginning to stir into action. It was just that this gentle dream was much more appealing, and he wanted to snuggle inside it, as if under a blanket when it’s snowing outside.

  Just then, he heard a very odd noise for an autumn night. A cicada. Toby’s eyes shot open. He’d waited so long for this moment. A shadow passed over him.

  “Are you dreaming?”

  Elisha’s question came with a tinkling laugh that somersaulted all the way to Toby.

  “Yes, I’m dreaming.”