by Piers Torday
*Because the wild I have sworn from my first breath to protect is dying. I … I have come to help you in your quest, Wildness.*
I slide off the stag and take a step towards the cub. I want to stroke him. But he suddenly growls, bristling, and I jerk my hand away.
*But I will not help the human! I can never help a human!* he snarls.
*Then you may not travel with us. We need the human’s help.*
The wolf-cub stares straight at me, eyes open wide. I hold my hands up in the air, trying to make peace.
*I want to help you, I promise,* I say. *I won’t harm you.*
*Ha!* he says, his ears splayed. *Have no fear of that. But you had better watch out for me. I will always be watching your back!*
I’m confused.
Now the wolf-cub is confused too, looking to the stag for advice. He tries again. *No, I mean, that is … you should watch your back! That’s all I’m saying.*
*I will try,* I say, trying not to let him see my smile as I get back on the stag. I can feel the cub watching my every move, and we wait.
Finally the stag breaks the silence. *So, Cub, will you join us all in peace?*
The wolf-cub snorts and, glancing at me, licks his nose sulkily.
*In that case you are most welcome,* says the stag, nuzzling the cub softly on the top of his head.
And then we are off again, marching back into the fog, the pigeons guiding us out with shouts and cries, the wolf-cub trotting behind as if he has been with us all along – which, in a way, I suppose he has. He is quiet though, treading suspiciously over the broken slates one by one like they might suddenly attack him.
There is a steady series of soft snores coming from my jacket pocket. I can’t believe the General slept through a wolf-cub arriving.
I would give anything to be able to lie down and sleep now. My head is boiling and pounding at the same time, and every step the stag takes makes me want to throw up.
The walls of rock give way to green slopes overgrown with rolls of spiky bush hidden behind yellow flowers, which look nice but scratch at the stag’s sides and my legs. As he picks his way along a path of muddy earth and roots, the ground rises steeply, until we find ourselves on top of a small knoll overlooking a dark green forest. And beyond, poking out above the trees, only just visible against the grey sky, but definitely there, dead ahead – a row of six chimneys.
I have seen other houses and chimney tops throughout our journey, but this has something none of the others had.
Smoke.
Sparks start to fly in my brain. If there are smoking chimneys, then underneath them there must be a fire – and warmth. And perhaps a bed, not a rock, that I can lie on.
I don’t say all that though. My head and stomach feel carved clean out, hollow, and every word is an effort.
*Look. Smoke.*
The stag grunts and turns around before starting to clop back the way we have come, along the rocky ridge, heading once more into the low white mist. I grab at the tufts of his mane.
*Wait! What are you doing? You’re going the wrong way.*
*We do not know what we might find there.*
*But I don’t feel well. I want to lie down.*
He stops and gives a long sigh. *My animals are not well either. And if we do not find a cure for them, they will all die. We cannot be discovered.*
This is a joke. Checking around for any sharp rocks and not seeing any, I bounce off him on to the hard ground, my head spinning as I do. The wolf-cub ducks out of my way, ears pricking. The stag keeps on walking, but a few strides up ahead he sighs and stops before turning round to glower at me. You forget when you’re on top of him, but he is really massive.
I reach down and grab a dead branch off the ground, holding it like a sword. My hands might be tingling from the cold, but there’s a fire burning in my stomach which rushes up my throat, a shower of sparks behind my eyes, making me dizzy.
*Please, Stag! I feel really sick. I’m the one going to die if you don’t take me to the house.*
Then the stag speaks gently. Soft. I wish he wasn’t soft. You can’t hit anything with a stick when it’s being soft.
*Very well. We can rest here awhile, if you wish.
I look at the stones jutting out of the earth, the spiky bushes. *I don’t want to lie on a rock! I want to lie on a bed – I need to lie down.*
He nods slowly, chewing, not saying a word. I try again. *If you’re worried about meeting people – well, you’ll have to meet plenty of them in Premium—*
*I will enter your land to meet with your father and his magic. But first we need to get there alive.*
The pigeons flutter down on to his horns, blinking at me.
*You must understand – we do not trust other humans like we do you.*
*Yes. Don’t trust me, human,* says the white pigeon, popping up on the stag’s back from nowhere.
*But there’s a fire – I could get warm,* I say, my head feeling dizzier and dizzier by the second.
*Yes,* reply the grey pigeons, *and humans only make fires so they can roast pigeons in them. That’s the reason you made them to begin with.*
*It is a great honour that we trust you at all,* says the wolf-cub, trying to copy the stag and sound older than he is.
But the old deer puts his foot down. He shakes his head gruffly, sending the pigeons tumbling off into the bushes while the wolf-cub cowers behind him.
*Enough of this – you are all behaving like fawns. We take another walk-upon.*
As I listen to them bicker, a thought charges up out of nowhere like a battering ram. The fire behind my eyes, the shakes, the sickness in my stomach – my brain and body are burning up. I should never have gone near these animals; I should never have agreed to any of this or left the safety of the Hall. There’s a reason the countryside is abandoned and all the animals are gone. An infectious, deadly reason. And now I’ve got it.
That’s it. I’ve got the red-eye. That’s the only explanation.
I drop the stick, shaking. Sweat trickles down my sides.
*I was wrong. I can’t help you.*
The stag lowers his head without a word.
The stomach-fire crackles and roars behind my eyes.
*Do you understand? This is all your fault!*
But they all just stare at me silently. Almost like they’re just animals again and we can no longer talk.
Fine – that’s probably for the best. So I turn on my heels and run away from them, down the hill, slipping and sliding on the flattened grass, in the direction of the chimneys, running faster and faster, away from the animals, towards the house.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
Because I know they’re not coming after me.
I keep on running, down through the forest of spiky trees.
My scarf catches on a branch –
I fall over on my front, right into the mud –
Hit my knee on a rock and get straight up again –
I’m going so fast. Just have to keep breathing and stay upright.
Stars begin to dance across my eyes. The more they do, the more I get used to them, like they’re normal.
A twig snaps behind me, or maybe I snapped it. Don’t care. Don’t care if someone does find me. I need help, medicine, a doctor – anything.
The soft ground turns into a gravelly track – that leads through two crumbling old pillars.
I’m dizzy with excitement and confusion. There are some words on the pillars – old-looking words carved into them, which keep blurring. I trace their ridges with my finger.
WIND’S EDGE
Looking between the pillars, over a rambling field dotted with stooping trees, I can see the house beneath the chimneys, so big and old it could be a museum. It must have a hundred windows and doors.
As long as behind one of the doors is a bed, I don’t care.
There are no lights in the windows and the paint is peeling off the wooden doors. The track turns into a paved circle, wit
h threads of weed tangling in between the cracks.
I stagger up the uneven stairs to the tall doors, each step a massive effort.
The door is locked. I rattle the handle and see there’s an old-fashioned doorbell, which I press – but nothing happens. I hammer on the door as hard as I can. It sounds as weak as a twig tapping against a window. Forcing myself to knock again, all I can hear is the sound of my own fist echoing against the wood inside.
I turn away from the door and push on round the corner, shivering like crazy, and wobble across an overgrown orchard, past blackened piles of long-rotten fruit. Just going near them, the sweet stink clouds my head in a rush that makes me want to puke – deep breaths, deep breaths.
It’s no good.
Everything is shut up and fastened down. There’s no way in. One of the fire-snakes in my stomach slides down my leg and scurries over to the rotten fruit. Only it’s not a fire-snake.
*General,* I just manage to say, *I thought …*
The General doesn’t look up from the fruit. But when he speaks, his mouth sounds full. *I’d like to say I came along to protect you, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.*
He’s now totally coated in rotten apple from top to bottom. I try to speak but the words don’t come out properly.
The General sighs. *What are my orders now?*
Unable to speak at all any more, I just point at a line of sheds, tacked on to the side of the house. The cockroach looks at me, looks at the mushy apples and makes a hissing noise. Then he darts between my legs and under the door of the nearest outbuilding.
I wait unsteadily, using every ounce of concentration I have left to stay upright.
After what seems like forever, there’s a rattling noise from inside. The door swings open, banging in the wind, and perched on the rusting lock is the General.
*Did you ever wonder how cockroaches get absolutely everywhere? Well now you know.*
I shake my head, and follow him into the shed. It’s damp and smells of armpits.
*A fragrance of true beauty,* the General says happily, before scuttling along rows of tall metal shelves, weaving in and out of old flowerpots. Groggily I stumble against them –
*Mind where you go, soldier!* the cockroach calls out, and, stepping over him, I fall against a door in the wall, which opens with a gentle click into the house beyond.
In the dark I feel my way along the walls and edge carefully round till I find the ridges of another door, which twists open. I can hear something else now – not the General, something new –
A crying noise.
*What is that infernal wailing?* mutters the General, but I’m hardly listening to him. Whatever it is, I’m heading for it as fast as I can. I know crying doesn’t mean food. But it means someone, something living. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I need help. I stumble along a corridor lined with paintings, down steps and round a corner towards a warm glow of electric light …
*Just try to be quiet and stay out of sight for longer than ten seconds,* I whisper to the cockroach. He scuttles up my leg and into my pocket.
The crying is high and painful to listen to, like a screaming baby.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and find myself looking into a dimly lit room. The light comes from a low lampshade hanging over a long wooden table. A table covered in glass-topped boxes, each one filled with a collection of pebbles or rocks or shells. And a brass microscope, next to row after row of bottles stoppered with corks, filled with a muddy liquid.
There’s a globe, an old-fashioned ticking clock and towering piles of leather-bound books. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. It really is like a museum in here.
Some of the books are spread open, showing pages with dead brown leaves stuck to them, and flaking flowers, all marked with tiny handwritten labels. And curled up right in the middle of one of the books is the crying thing.
I take one jerky step after another across the deep carpet.
The thing should be dead, not sat here crying. Thin, white and fluffy, curled up on an old book, it’s a kind of pet people used to have – a cat. The white fur glitters under the light. I stumble towards it, confused –
*I wouldn’t do that, if I was you,* she snaps in a snotty voice, stopping her sobbing abruptly. The cat twists her head at me and bares her little sharp teeth and pink gums. But I’m not looking at her teeth. I’m looking at her eyes. Her burning red eyes.
The confusion spins faster and faster in my head. This isn’t the Ring of Trees – how is she even still alive, how is she … ?
I have to take a picture. I point my wrist, a quick flash, then –
‘Hands off my cat,’ says a voice. ‘Turn around! Now!’
I turn around to see a girl with dark hair curled up on her head and fierce eyes staring at me over a small angry mouth. A girl wearing blue wellies. And carrying a gun, pointed at me.
With a yowl the cat leaps off the table, sending bottles and books flying in a billowing cloud of dust.
‘Sit down!’ barks the girl, waving her gleaming rifle at me. ‘Are you a kidnapper?’
I don’t know, I – all I can do is slump to the floor.
She calmly sits down opposite me, resting the gun across her knees. An outsider. So the rumours were true.
‘If you’ve come to kidnap Sidney, I’m not going to let you.’ She picks up the gun and squints down the telescopic sight, frowning at me. ‘Just because she’s the last cat ever. I don’t care how much money you want for her. We won’t pay.’
I look at the dark hole of the gun barrel, and at the cat, now stalking in and out of my legs.
*Sidney’s a weird name for a girl cat, isn’t it?*
But Sidney the female cat just snarls. *I didn’t choose the name. Talk to her – tell her what you want,* she says, flashing her teeth. *You can see she knows how to use that thing.*
I believe her.
*I can’t talk to people, only animals. I’m sick. I just want to get better …*
*Oh, we all want that,* she says, narrowing her burning red eyes and turning her back on me with a flick of her tail.
‘Put your hands where I can see them,’ says the girl.
I hold them out, palms up.
‘On your head!’ she snaps.
Leaving the gun resting on her knees, but her eyes on me, she reaches behind into one of the boxes piled up behind her, finds a water bottle, unscrews the cap and takes a long, slurping sip.
All I can feel is my dry throat, my glued-together lips.
The girl puts the bottle back down.
We sit, staring at each other over the gun, neither of us daring to blink first –
Then I look away – and lunge suddenly for her bottle of water –
But she is too quick for me, snatching it out of reach.
‘No! Tell me what you want first, and then you can have a sip.’ She drums her wellies on the floor and the gun jumps. As do I, pointing to my dry lips and gums, waving my hands across one another for ‘No’. She stares at me, not understanding, until eventually a light dawns in her eyes.
‘You can’t talk? Well, you can’t be very good as a kidnapper if you can’t talk! How do you issue your orders?’
There’s a silent stand-off, broken only by the sound of Sidney, now curled up in her lap, purring softly. I feel the General bristling for action in my pocket.
‘OK,’ says the girl, like she’s answering a question I haven’t asked. ‘Let’s try this another way.’ Rummaging about in the sea of junk around us, she shoves a battered rectangular box across the floor to me. I wonder what weird or rotting specimen lies inside.
‘Go on! Open it!’
I rest the box on my knees and prise the lid off. But there’s nothing rotting inside – just a folded board, which opens out into a series of differently coloured and labelled squares. There are some racks and a drawstring bag.
I just look at her.
‘Well, go on, Kidnapper! You must play, don’t you?’
The girl jabs at the board with her foot. ‘Tell me your name at least, and I’ll give you a sip of water.’
Beginning to understand, I stick my hand into the pile. Scrabbling around, I grab a fistful of letters, find the ones I need and lay them out on the board.
The girl peers over her knees at the tiles. I’m keeping an eye on the gun.
‘That’s only ten points, Kidnapper, and you haven’t even got a double word score.’
I shrug and hold my hand out for the water. She pauses, and then passes it over. I unscrew the lid and take a long, long gulp. Possibly the best gulp I’ve ever had in my life.
‘I don’t even know where you’re from, Kester the Kidnapper. You could be anybody. You know you’re not allowed through here.’ She glances out of the window behind. ‘They tried to make us leave. But it’s our family home, you see. And has been for gen-er-ations.’ She pronounces the word slowly, like she’s still getting used to saying it right. ‘The last time they came, we hid in the attic.’
*Don’t remind me,* says Sidney, with a cough that rattles her skinny body like a massive electric shock. *She put me in a suitcase so they wouldn’t hear anything. Me – in a suitcase! Can you imagine?*
I can. It sounds like quite a good idea.
‘Well, go on!’ says the girl, nearly taking my eye out with the end of the gun. ‘Tell me where you’re from, Kidnapper.’ Her eyes never leave me for a second while I rummage among the tiles –
She cranes her head to read and sniffs. ‘The Facto school? It’s certainly high-scoring.’ She edgily eyes the gun, still resting on her knees and pointed at me. ‘You must definitely be dangerous if you’ve escaped from there.’ A glance at the board again and then back at me, dead in the eye. ‘I’m going to ask you this one more time and the answer had better be good. Why are you out here in the Zone?’
Taking a deep breath, I start to spell out a number of words across the board, moving and rearranging tiles till my story is told.
‘I hope you’re sticking to the rules. It won’t work unless you stick to the rules.’