‘There is nothing on the shelf,’ I called up to give myself more time to decide what to do. ‘I am going to look on the floor. Maybe I kicked it off when you lowered me.’
There came a groan from my master. ‘Then make haste, boy. We need to be gone.’
I didn’t reply. I put my arms out in front of me and felt the chill wall of the tomb. Please God there would be only bones in this place, not a still-rotting cadaver, ready to poison me with the plague. Was there a place to squeeze my body out of sight? If I seemed to have vanished when Zandar peered in, as he was sure to do if I stayed silent, would he think me gone for ever? Should I wail like a ghost to frighten him more? But I was too afraid of the dead to do more than cower as I felt the walls, and almost ready to reach back up for Zandar’s hands. There was nowhere to hide in the first side of the tomb, nor the second. As I started feeling along the third most of the light vanished and Zandar’s voice boomed down at me.
‘Come, boy, don’t make me angry now. Hand me up the packet and we’ll be gone.’
As I felt for a hiding place in the third side of the tomb, I stumbled into an alcove. It was deep and very dark. The further Zandar leant in to look for me the more light he would block. He would never see me there. All I had to do was to be silent. I felt for the wall to lean against, but there was nothing. I reached out and followed my outstretched hands. Still nothing. Was it a passage to another tomb? A path to the underworld? Was there a pit ahead, ready to swallow me up? I stopped, but then behind me I heard the unmistakable sound of someone climbing down into the tomb. It must be Zandar, but so much horror had me in its grip I feared it could be the returning corpse of this empty tomb. To go on would be folly, to go back was unthinkable, but if I stayed where I was the corpse or its ghost would find me, if Zandar did not.
Terror sped me, caution slowed me down. The dark was soft as soot as I staggered through it, arms outstretched. There came a point when my hands hit a wall and I thought my journey had come to an end, buried deep within the ground, the earth pressing hard upon my head. The wall was rough and jagged against my fingers, but when I felt carefully along it, I found myself turning a corner. On I went, shaking in terror at what I could only imagine lurked there, watching me. All sounds in the tomb were muffled now, apart from my rasping breath and the thundering of my heart. I bit my lip to stop myself moaning. And then, ahead of me, I was almost sure I saw a light. It was no more than the eye of a bird, but something glistened. It must be daylight, shining to me down this terrible path. I hastened towards it, trying to be mindful of dangers, but with hope of escape exceeding my caution. I could be free. I would be free. Out in the air of the moor with the bright gorse to welcome me home.
CHRISTOPHER MORGAN
11
Losing Abel was a tragedy that could have been expected to send Christopher entirely into madness, but it did not. It was a close thing, but somehow, he clung to sanity. At first, he dared not take to his bed because each day he hoped to see Abel again. As time passed, the tragedy of his loss seemed to overshadow his instability. Or, he sometimes thought, his melancholy was now so deep it had become his natural state. And yet, still he did not take to his bed. From somewhere he found the strength to carry on. Everything he did, he did for Abel. He considered his son’s reaction, whatever he worked at. Instead of abandoning his garden, as he might have done, he worked harder in it, planting all the seeds Abel had sorted and labelled for him. Each plant that thrived seemed to point to his son being alive. Every one that failed told him Abel was dead. He lavished such care upon them all that with William’s help they had good eating from the garden that year and plenty of seed to save for the next. Abel was not there to label the packets, but Christopher did it for him, imagining him at his side, his arm about his father’s neck while he leant against his father’s thigh and made fun of his untidy scribbling.
Christopher had lost the ready laugh that had been his when with his son. As the summer days shortened into autumn it became obvious, even to him, that after six months’ absence his son would not return, and that his bones might never be recovered. He wished he could have laid his son to rest. His grief was incomplete without a body to weep over and bury. He had failed both his wife and son in that respect. He prayed for them both every day, although, if anything, his faith was further away from him than it had ever been. He created jobs for himself, to keep despair at bay and his hope in check. Once there was less to do in the garden and the days began to drive him indoors, he decided to block up the locked gate in the cellar. Daniel hadn’t tried to use it for a long time. Christopher had won that battle, though it seemed to matter little now. It would be good, however, not to be reminded of it whenever he had cause to go down there. Besides, he had noticed small toadstools in one spot in the cellar, near the gate. Would it be possible to grow mushrooms down there? He wished to experiment. He would need soil, so he would fill sacks and take them down there from the garden. He would pile them up in front of the gate and try various mushroom-growing experiments. It was the right time of year to find specimens to plant. And physical activity quietened his mind.
He worked hard, filling such patched and frayed sacks as he could find, and carrying them through the kitchen and down into the cellar. He knew he tried poor Jane’s patience, but since the loss of Abel, she and William had become less like master and servant, and more like friends. They all grieved for the boy and took pains to be kind to one other. Poverty and loss had them all level. So, Christopher tried not to trail too much mud through the kitchen and Jane tried not to scold.
He ran out of sacks when the stack was chest high. It was a pity, but most of the gate was now hidden and he had more soil than he would ever need to grow fungi. He had recently collected edible specimens from the woodland and fields on the other side of the village. He had split a large bracket fungus in an effort to make cuttings. He had planted them with care into some of the holes in the sacks, trying to replicate the trees on which they naturally liked to grow. Unfortunately, they showed little sign of liking their new home, but he persevered.
Near the small cellar window, he had scattered more soil and was busy setting a handful of young field mushrooms there when he heard Abel call him. It happened now and then, always without warning, and as clear as if the boy were by his side. It was, he knew, a trick of grief and longing, but it always pierced his heart.
‘Here I am,’ he said quietly, which had become a habit with him, as if it were possible to reassure his dead son. But this time, it seemed the disembodied voice was not comforted.
‘Father!’
It came again, more urgently, and Christopher found himself looking around the empty cellar.
‘Father! Here!’
He stood up, straightening his aching back. He was afraid. He had struggled so long to keep from the madness that was like a baleful twin, constantly dripping poison in his ear. He wanted so much to resist, but his son’s voice was so real, and so wanted. He was afraid of hearing it again but yearned for it.
‘Father! Help me!’
It was coming from the soil stack, from the good earth within which his son’s poor bones should lie but did not. He couldn’t help himself. He went over to the stack and put his hand upon the mound as if he could comfort his son that way.
A face was there! His son’s face, above the sacks, staring wildly at him through the bars of the gate. For a moment, Christopher thought he had risen from the earth, but he was no pale Lazarus. His skin was as brown as a beech leaf, his hair matted and unkempt. His eyes were wild but bursting with unmistakable life. If this were madness, Christopher could resist no longer. He started to pull away the sacks, heaving them with frantic energy. Soon, he could see more of his son. It was him! He was whole and looked healthier than ever. He was wiry and strong, and the hands he thrust through the bars were rough and calloused.
‘Take this. I will help push the sacks from this side.’
Christopher took the small packet his son was proffe
ring and thrust it into his pocket. Abel was in a fever of urgency and his panic infected his father.
‘Hurry!’
The sacks had to be pulled far enough away so the gate would open. So much soil was being spilt that he would have to scoop it away. And he must fetch the key when the gate was clear. Was it still in the box in his room? These thoughts raced through his head, even as he longed to hold his son safely in his arms. Questions could come later. Now it was all fevered action and mingled joy and uncertainty. But his son was real. He was. And alive!
Having dragged yet another sack clear, Christopher returned to the gate to see a different face staring at him. This was not his son. This was a man. For a second their eyes met. Fear fizzed between them, and then Christopher felt a blow in his chest as if he had been punched. An unbearable heat, and a noise so loud it deafened him. Everything slowed. He started to fall. He knew he had been shot. He struggled not to let the darkness in. In his mind, he reached out for his son, but Abel slipped like liquid from his grasp. The dark came up behind his eyes and he fell.
ABEL MORGAN
12
The light was nearer than I had thought. And it was not daylight. It looked as if the path ended ahead of me, but a candle or some such must have been set in a niche at the height of my head to cast this feeble glow. I approached warily. For there to be light, there must be someone nearby, and I did not want to escape one to be taken by another. Did the path continue to the right or left? Was someone, even now, listening, waiting for me to approach?
As I drew near, I could see no way to continue. Ahead, the way was blocked by iron bars and a blank wall. But the light was not a candle set into a niche – it was coming from beyond the bars, shining through a gap near the top of the wall. Holding onto the bars, I raised myself, so I could look through the gap. What I saw made me fall back in disbelief. I could make no sense of it, but my heart began racing as never before and I raised myself again. Whatever maturity I had gained from the past half year fell away in an instant and I was a young child again. For it was the cellar of the Rumfustian Inn! I saw a lantern set close by on the floor, and my parent standing by the window!
‘Father!’
He did not hear.
‘Father! Here I am!’
He moved like an old man, with no urgency in his step until he saw me. Then he moved. He started to pull at the wall and I pushed. It was made of heavy sacks, but he started to drag them away as if they were bags of thistledown. Even so, he was not fast enough for me. I felt buried alive, with freedom so close. Every frantic moment felt like an age. When he stopped to take my hands and to caress my face, tears running down his cheeks, I wanted to be held in his arms, but the bars held us apart. I pulled away and thrust the package I still held at him.
‘Father. Take this so I can help.’ He put it inside his coat and we both redoubled our efforts. I didn’t hear Zandar or see him. But my father did. His eyes widened and he took a step back.
Then it happened. It was done in an instant, but the moment is engraved upon my soul. As my father moved towards me again, a mighty explosion sounded in my ear. A smudge of smoke clouded my sight and, when I could see again, my father was lying motionless on the ground. A red stain was growing over his heart.
Zandar gripped my hair and dragged me back from the gate. The pain was terrible, but not as terrible as seeing my father lying dead because of me.
13
I was soon back on board, shut up in the place where Samal and I slept. The door was barred and my hands were tied so tight I was in agony. I sat on the tiny bunk with only one thought in my head. I had killed my father just as surely as if I had fired the shot. If I hadn’t tried to escape he would still be alive.
I was now an orphan twice over and had been the instrument of both my parents’ deaths. I had only one hope: that Zandar would forgive me. I had no choice. I would do my best to be a dutiful worker if he would keep me by him. Zandar had begun to think of me as a son. Surely, he would again?
But that was idle fancy. If he could feel sentimental, Zandar could also be unforgiving. What was more, I could hear his brother chiding him for his stupidity with me, and that must have made his mood worse. I stayed locked up for two days, never seeing Zandar, and only getting beer and a little bread from Samal on the second day.
When we eventually left Chineborough we didn’t go far. As it began to grow dark, we lost way, and then I could hear the anchor go down. We must have been in one of the many inlets that speckled this coastline. Some gave good shelter in stormy weather, though it was not stormy this night. In fact, it felt very still. I couldn’t bring myself to care where I was, but I was not allowed to wallow in my misery. The door to my prison was unbarred and Samal was there bearing a lamp against the night sky. Without comment, he took hold of my arm and manhandled me out into the hold. We made our way without words to the stairs that led up on deck. There was no sign of Zandar. Samal drew me to the side and motioned for me to climb over. At this, a terrible fear filled me. Was he going to drown me? But below was the little rowing boat, used when we lay at anchor close to shore.
‘Where is Zandar?’ I asked but received no answer. If he was aboard, and I felt sure he must be, he didn’t want to see me.
With difficulty I climbed down into the little boat. Samal joined me and immediately pushed off.
‘Where are we going?’ I was much more frightened of Samal than his brother. It somewhat disgusted me that I could value my own life while having so recently ended my father’s, but the desire to live burnt within me. Again, Samal declined to answer.
It was not far to the shore. There was a little beach of sand and shingle, onto which Samal drove the boat. Then he shipped his oars. He pushed me roughly to get out and I did so, splashing through the cool ankle-deep water. Ahead of me, at some way down the beach, a light shone. Samal caught hold of my arm again and pushed me towards it. As we drew near, I looked to see what manner of man was there to meet us. He looked somewhat crooked, and when he stepped forward into the light and spoke his voice was harsh, as if a saw had rasped it half away. My heart filled with dread. He glanced at me as if I were a horse for sale, and a poor one at that.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s the boy Daniel Johnson sold us. We have no further use for him.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s trouble. I would have drowned him, but Zandar is a soft-hearted idiot. He said you would know what to do with him.’ Samal sounded surly.
‘Give me the packet and be gone.’
Samal’s voice had an ingratiating whine to it. ‘There was no packet. You were let down by your information.’
The man became very still. He spoke quietly, but every word was clear. ‘I was not let down, but it appears I have been betrayed.’
Samal’s whine turned to bluster. ‘Not by me. I tell you there was no packet. My brother saw so when he went in after the boy. He brought the other packet back with him in case it was not safe to leave it after he shot the man. I have it here for you.’
The man turned his head slightly in my direction. ‘You sent the boy to fetch it? And you shot a man there?’
‘Not I. My brother. He …’
‘Search him.’
Samal looked sullen.
The man spoke to us both. ‘The boy could have picked up the packet. Did you, boy?’
My mouth was as dry as the dust on a book. I shook my head.
‘Search him.’
Samal’s callused hands ran roughly over my body. He knocked my feet from me and pulled off my boots. When my knife fell out he grabbed it, but the man was not interested in my knife. ‘Put it back,’ he said.
Samal obeyed with a frown. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said. ‘He might use it.’
The man glanced at my bound hands with contempt and gestured at my boots. ‘Put them on,’ he said to me. I struggled into my boots with difficulty and stood up.
‘What about the price we paid for the boy?’ whined Samal. �
��I will take the goods you have for us, but I must also have the price for the boy.’
The man said nothing, but he moved closer, as if to speak privately. Suddenly Samal was falling and the man was stepping back. A blade had slashed Samal’s neck and his blood was pouring onto the sand. He jerked horribly several times, and then was still. It was done in an instant. The man stooped and wiped the knife on Samal’s shirt.
He took me to a pair of horses tethered to a scrubby tree. I was not required to ride pillion. He boosted me up onto the pack animal, where I sat, trying without success to stop my trembling. Would I be the next to receive his knife? The man laid his hand on my knee and looked at me.
‘If you try to escape I will kill you,’ he said.
I knew it was true, but I could not answer, for I had discovered something about him that chilled my very soul. The hand on my knee was far heavier than any man’s real hand, and it was deadly cold. Its fingers stayed straight, not gripping my knee as I would have expected. I glanced down and saw two metal levers poking out of the leather that covered the hand and wrist. I had never seen or heard of anything like it.
The man swung himself into his saddle. I watched in horrified fascination as he did something with the knobs. The fingers and thumb of the metal hand closed over the reins like a spider gripping its prey. Without a word to me he set off at a steady trot with my horse on a leading rein tied to his saddle.
Once on the road he set a punishing pace. The horses ate up the miles, but I was unused to such long journeys and suffered for it. I found myself slipping between sleeping and waking in the saddle. I wanted to beg him to stop but knew he wouldn’t take any notice. Instead, I hunched over my horse’s neck and hung on as best I could with my bound hands. I feared falling and longed to wrap my arms around the horse’s neck for safety but couldn’t. I feared everything: losing my seat, angering the man, our destination and what might happen next. In short, I was as adrift as if I had been alone at sea.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 10