Fenn shrugged, then looked down at his legs and saw he was under a thick, white blanket, but he was sleepy and couldn’t be bothered to reply. But someone being sleepy had never stopped Amber before. She jabbed him in the chest with her nail.
“Wake up!” she snapped. “Wake up!”
A shriek jolted Fenn awake from his dream and he sat up quickly. It was the middle of the night. A screech owl was skimming over his head, hunting for frogs and mice between the mossy rocks. He had been lying exactly where he’d fallen asleep the night before, on the stubby outcrop of rocks overlooking Halflin’s Sunkyard. Halflin always said owls were bad luck and Fenn’s stomach knotted in fear. His hand was on his chest where something sharp was digging in and when he pulled it out, there was the brass clover earring Amber had given him the day before to bring him luck. It must have pierced through his pocket and woken him.
It had brought him luck as she’d hoped; Fenn was already covered in a layer of snow but he hadn’t felt cold. Lulls yer ter death quicker than a mermaid, Halflin had once warned him about the cold. Fenn scrambled to his feet, shaking miniature stalactites from his fringe.
“Tikki?” he croaked. “Tikki!”
The small mound of snow at his feet began to shake and squeak, before cracking open to reveal his rucksack buried beneath. Fenn gently scuffed off the snow and peered inside.
“Tikki?” he called anxiously. There was a mewing as the little mongoose made his way to the opening. He popped his head out of the bag, twitching his whiskers and blinking sleepily at Fenn.
“You shouldn’t be in there. It’s dangerous,” Fenn said, lifting Tikki away from the kerosene-filled bottle-bomb he’d wedged in the corner with Halflin’s old leather gauntlets. He’d made four to destroy the Punchlock and this was his last one; it was the only weapon he had.
He rumpled Tikki’s fur, making him purr with happiness. As Tikki’s warmth seeped into his frost-blistered fingertips, Fenn looked over at the Punchlock. Setting it alight had been the signal to the Resistance that the Demaris had returned; returned to fight the Terra Firma.
Even now it was still burning; the embers of the tarry post shimmered and smouldered, casting a molten orange glow over the tranquil waters of the Sunkyard. Every so often there were sharp spitting sounds, like eggs being cracked into a skillet of hot bacon fat, and suddenly the memory of his last morning with Halflin tried to shoulder its way into Fenn’s thoughts. But Fenn was properly awake now and refused it entry, jamming the door closed to his past. That was gone and his beloved grandfather was dead. He had to forget memories like that; it would do no good to remember them. They would bring him pain and make him weak.
The only thing he needed to think about now was the Resistance – and revenge. Chilstone had killed his parents and grandfather, stolen the Sargassons’ children and imprisoned thousands of innocent Seaborns, including his old friend Milk. The memory of Milk’s pale eyes, blinking in confused terror the night Chilstone’s men had made a Sweep on the Shanties, had scarred Fenn’s heart. The Resistance needed Fenn as much as he needed them. That’s why he’d taken such a risk lighting the Punchlock; it could just as easily bring Chilstone to his door.
He stretched stiffly and scanned the marsh. Thick clouds bulged over the full moon, making it hard to see much more than the snow-whitened tips of bulrushes. Apart from the odd rasping bark of a marsh fox in the distance, it was quiet as a grave. East Isle’s Wall was invisible, yet when Fenn turned in its direction he felt he could see it still. He peered into the marsh’s swirling mists, willing there to be a sign of movement, but he knew the truth. The Punchlock had been burning for hours; if anyone was coming, they would have come by now.
There was no Resistance. He was on his own.
When he’d thrown the first bomb, Fenn’s heart had been full of fire too. Now it sunk like lead. He gazed bleakly at the smouldering timber, his fingers still throbbing as they returned to life. He felt stupid and alone, wondering what he should do. If the Resistance was dead, he’d have to find others to fight with him. Magpie’s words returned to him in a flash, Sargassons the only ones puttin’ up a fight.
Every Seaborn had reason to fear Chilstone; anyone without the right to live on land was a second-class citizen in the Terra Firma’s eyes, but the East Marsh Sargassons didn’t just fear Chilstone, they hated him too. It was thirteen years since Chilstone had snatched every child under two years old in his insane hunt for Tomas and Maya’s baby. Fenn knew that wounds that deep took more than time to heal. Fenn didn’t know where their settlement was, but he’d scour the marsh until he found them, or they found him. They had to have enough fight and anger to match his own.
If he was going to be out on the marsh for weeks he’d need shelter and a weapon to protect him. He had matches, a few candles, his penknife, a sou’wester and shirt, but he’d need something for shelter and ideally a bigger knife. He remembered the sailcloth drying behind the hut and the sharp billhook Halflin used to split kindling. He lifted Tikki up around his neck and carefully put the firebomb upright in his rucksack, wedging it with the shirt he’d taken from the Ionia the night they’d buried Lundy, Halflin’s old friend who had helped them so much. Then he slipped the rucksack straps over his shoulders and scrambled back down the path towards the hut.
It was so dark he crashed into the wall flanking the back garden, slicing open his knee on the sharp flint, but he was in too much of a hurry to feel the pain. As he approached the hut, the clouds parted enough to let the moonshine through and he saw the ghostly white rectangle of the sailcloth, its coating of white frost glinting in the moonlight. He yanked it off the rope and bundled it into a tight roll, using the rope to tie it to his rucksack. He ran to the cart-shed and tugged the billhook out of the block, wrapped the shirt around the blade and stuffed it deep in the rucksack. Then he slipped back into the hut. The door was ajar, letting a slice of silvery light fall across the floor like a knife. Tikki could smell rats and scampered down Fenn’s body to see what he could catch.
First Fenn checked the crate where Halflin stored the rice and grain the Gleaners traded for bacon and rabbit, just in case he’d missed anything the day before. What the Terras hadn’t bothered to loot had been spoilt by wild animals. He found a tin and peered inside, but all that was left were husks of millet scattered with mouse droppings. He had just whistled to Tikki to go, when he remembered the old telescope he once used to search out Fearzeros. It’d be useful out on the marsh, and it had been Halflin’s when he’d been at sea; he wanted it for that reason alone. As he clambered up the ladder. Tikki scampered up after him and immediately slid off to investigate the crevices beneath the roof, squeaking excitedly.
It was as black as prunes beneath the tiles, too dark to see anything, but Fenn had hidden up there enough times to know every knot and splinter in the wooden boards. Feeling the rough wood like Braille, he inched over to the lookout platform where he’d seen the Warspite that fateful morning. He tentatively groped in the dark for the telescope, but instead his fingertips snagged on the jagged edge of metal where the telescope had been wrenched off its stand. The Terras had taken it.
The platform was made from a pallet with a couple of mothy blankets over it. Anything would be useful to Fenn on his trek. As he bundled one into his rucksack, he heard a tinny clatter in the pitch black.
Fenn felt around again and his fingers alighted on something else: the stub of a candle melted down in a jar. He struck one of the matches he’d taken from the Salamander and lit the wick. On the floor nearby was the tin of oats Halflin left there.
Could save yer life if yer stuck up here, Halflin had said as he’d stuffed the tin beneath the pallet. Take ’em wiv a spit o’ water ter puff ’em up an’ fill yer. He’d never forgotten the old tricks he’d learnt aboard the Labour-Ship when the Terras imprisoned him for forgery. Fenn quickly unscrewed the lid to check they were still edible.
He saw it immediately; a triangle of paper poking out of the floury grains, like the
sail of a ship. Fenn tugged it out.
The paper was thin and folded many times to strengthen it into a hard packet, so he had to shake out the oats caught inside. It crackled as he opened it, sparky with its old secret. Inside the first fold was written:
Fenn
He’d never seen his name written before and it was a shock. It was like the first time he’d ever seen his own reflection and noticed his eyes were different colours and weren’t the same muddy hazel-brown as Halflin’s. He was surprised at two Ns; he’d thought Fenn was spelt with one. Then he began to notice the detail of each letter – the spidery, wobbly line, a splash of ink running from the E. He opened the second fold and read:
If yer in truble get ter the Sargassons
And just beneath this was a single smudged fingerprint: Halflin’s. A muscle in Fenn’s heart flinched, but he bit back the thought and turned the paper over, spreading it flat on the pallet and smoothing out the creases. He brought the candle closer. It was the first page torn from Fenn’s old encyclopaedia.
Chambers’s Encyclopaedia of Universal Knowledge
Volume III
Below this were the words “Cadaver to Dragon”, although they were barely legible beneath a detailed map. Fenn stared at the precious piece of paper; he needed this knowledge more than tarps or knives. Halflin had drawn all of East Marsh for him, using ink brewed from bark.
The map had which landmarks to watch out for: the remains of a church tower and a windmill. It showed shipwrecks to shelter in, the few bridges the Terras hadn’t destroyed and where the water was shallow enough to wade. On the eastern side of the map, Halflin had drawn the thick bank of Sargassum that had lured the eels to East Isle’s marshes, followed by the Sargassons who fished for them. It showed dangers too: the swathe of mudflats across the midsection of the map were dotted to show quicksand, and along the southern coast were the Hellhulks – ancient Fearzeros now turned into prison ships. The main Terra Firma sentry points along East Isle’s Wall were also marked out.
Most important of all, Halflin had drawn the old forest. It was forty miles long, stretching from one side of the marsh to the other, and was ten miles deep. It had been planted as a flood defence years before, when the trees had been grown to slow the coming tsunamis. It had nearly worked, but the last Rising was so huge it had swept over the forest, engulfing it and turning the fresh water salty. Most of the trees had died. Now twisting around the dying or petrified trees were tangles of rivers and creeks to lead a mapless traveller lost beyond finding. Apart from Sargassons who fished for eels there and Seaborn strays whose boats were marooned, Halflin always told Fenn the forest was uninhabitable, perhaps to stem his curiosity. But in the uppermost corner of the forest, was a scratched cross next to the word “Sargassons”. The Sargasson settlement was a closely guarded secret, but Halflin had lived and worked on the marsh all his life and knew it like the back of his hand. He had mapped the Sargasson territory so Fenn could find their settlement too. With the last Demari to rally them, Fenn was sure they could defeat Chilstone and the Terra Firma once and for all. He stared at the map a few moments longer to commit it to memory before carefully buttoning it in his pocket.
He had everything there was to take. It was time to go. There wasn’t much of the night left and he wanted to travel as far as he could before daylight. He took one last look around the gloomy loft and was about to blow out the candle when he spied a chink of light through one of the loosened tiles. His heart quickening with excitement, he crouched down and peered through the tiles. Dozens of lights freckled the marshes, moving quickly towards the burning Punchlock. Fenn couldn’t believe it; the Resistance had come after all!
“Tikki!” Fenn called, light-headed with excitement, running back towards the hatch. Tikki bounded up, but just as he sprang up on Fenn’s shoulder, Fenn was struck by Halflin’s voice again. Look before yer leap. He stepped back and looked out through the roof tiles again, straining to make out the approaching figures. He could see the lights flashing from the lanterns but there was something else glinting too; some kind of metal.
The steel truncheons of Terras.
3
Instantly the heat of excitement chilled, like a fever sweat on the skin. There was nowhere for Fenn to run, nowhere to hide. He was trapped. The doors weren’t bolted and he didn’t have time to get down and out of the back door. Even if he could, he wasn’t certain they hadn’t surrounded the hut already.
Fenn’s heart somersaulted in fear. He blew out the candle flame and gently lowered the trapdoor back into place, softly sliding the bolt to with the heel of his boot, before peeping back through the lookout. Against the Punchlock’s glow he could just make out the silhouettes of a group of Terras who had turned a fire-hose on its dying embers. Slurries of wet smoke and steam smeared the lightening sky. Another unit of Terras was running up the path that led from the Punchlock, keeping in the deep shadows cast by the clumps of gorse. Others were already behind the wall encircling the hut. The clouds scudded across the moon again.
Under the cover of this, several of the Terras ran bent-backed towards the hut as if they expected to be shot at. Fenn had a split second to make up his mind.
If not down, then up, he thought. The side of the roof that took the hardest battering from winds off the estuary had been laid with slate tiles. On the other side it had been covered with whatever could be found: reeds woven between branches of elder and squares of purple-black clods cut from the marsh. It had needed replacing a year before, but now Fenn was glad the winter had been too cold for Halflin to get on with the job. It should be rotten enough for him to push his way out.
Fenn put his palms flat under the reeds above his head and gave it a hard shove, making a hole large enough to climb through. Just as he was about to clamber out, he heard a thumping from the room below and the sound of someone coming up the ladder.
“Someone’s up there!”
Tikki squeaked in fear at the sound of the Terras’ shouts. The hatch shook as one of the Terras heaved his shoulder against it.
“Give yourself up. You’ve got nowhere to go!”
The hatch bounced again. Fenn ripped open his rucksack and lifted out the last firebomb as Tikki hopped back in.
Fenn carefully propped the firebomb next to the hatch. He lit the wick and scrambled out onto the roof. As soon as he’d squeezed through the hole, he heard the hatch crash open, but he didn’t look back. He was already skidding down the reeds towards the pigsty. His heart seemed to slow with thickening blood as adrenalin surged through his veins. Run, keep on running, came Halflin’s voice in his head. Fenn landed on the pigsty roof and rolled across the black slates, jagged as crow’s wings.
The second after he landed, the bomb went off, followed by a loud crash as part of the hut’s roof was blasted into the air. The force of the explosion knocked Fenn off the pigsty. Sky, slate and flame twisted in a sickening spiral as he crashed with a smack on the frosty ground. Pain snapped like teeth around his lungs, making everything sharp and clear again.
A spurt of orange flame shot out through a hole in the thatch. From inside, Fenn heard the shouts and screams of the terrified Terras.
Geddup! came the voice in his head.
Fenn lurched to his feet, his eyes watering as he tried to grab a breath in vain. As he staggered away he took a quick look over his shoulder, just in time to see three Terras bolting from the hut, flames licking down their clothing and over their masks. They plunged into the pigs’ water troughs and rolled over in the snow to douse the fire as other Terras ran up to help. Fenn skidded around the pigsties to get out of view and threw himself down on the ground. He wrenched open the rucksack to check Tikki hadn’t been hurt when they fell. In the corner of the rucksack a tiny ball of fur was bunched up, shivering.
“Good boy!” Fenn whispered. There wasn’t time for more. He slapped back the rucksack flap and stumbled head-first into the dark.
A white crust of snow on the old oak tree soon gave Fenn his b
earings and he careened towards it, diving around the other side, gasping for air as he pressed his back up against the trunk, the hard knobbles of warty bark pushing through his coat. He listened out for the sound of Terras but still no one was following.
He gulped in breath in shuddering spasms as he tried to remember which way he was supposed to go. It was so dark it was pointless getting the map out again and he didn’t have time anyway. Instead he pictured it in his mind’s eye: the path led past the Ionia and on towards an old shipwreck on the edge of the mudflats.
He tightened the rucksack’s strap across his waist to keep it from getting yanked off as he passed through the gorse. He wrapped his scarf tight against his face to protect it, then plunged into the reed beds.
He ran non-stop for the next two hours, until morning burst onto the marsh. Halflin could recognise the signs of solid ground better than Fenn: one moment he was on it, the next, he was waist-deep in slimy water, clawing at reeds to pull himself out. He couldn’t find the passage Halflin had followed – an avenue hollowed out by muntjac and foxes. Instead, Fenn kept going even though the reeds split open his skin like razor blades. The first cut stung cruelly, but after that he ceased to notice; all he worried about was if Tikki was getting bruised or if he was scared.
Fenn darted left and right in zigzags to hide the course he was cutting through the reed beds. He wouldn’t cover quite so much ground this way, but he’d be harder to follow. He went on like this, until the fiery orange sun was over the horizon and the birds from all over the marsh had woken. Curlews and lapwings began whistling, their chorus swelling as the sun rose higher.
Fenn ran through the pain of a searing stitch until suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of fiery red in the distance through the reeds. He stopped; far off he could see the Ionia’s windows, reflecting the golden light. The sight filled him with hope and he congratulated himself on his sense of direction – not bad for his first time out in the marsh alone.
Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn Page 2