At last light burst over the horizon and the sun’s shafts splintered out. Copper sunbeams striped the ocean like a bridge, showing the exact route to the east. He knew he was right to let her go, but even so, as he let Amber’s hand drop away from his, a sharp pang of regret twisted deep inside. She stared at him, still waiting for his answer.
“I’m not going back to hide,” he said. “I’m going back to fight.”
21
After five days the fuel had run out and they relied on the sails. Food was also low and there was still no land in sight. For the last two nights Tikki had scrabbled up from hunting rats in the hold and eagerly bounded up to Fenn, empty-mouthed. Fathom had managed to land a couple of fish and Fenn had thought to collect and pack the snow that had fallen for the first three days so they had an icebox and a little water. But it wasn’t enough; there were five of them and the hard work of sailing a ship meant they were all hungrier than ever.
So when dawn broke on the sixteenth day at sea, revealing a granite-grey strip on the horizon, they yelled with relief and danced around the deck. Still in jubilant spirits, they spotted the early sunrays slanting across the water, glimmering on something a mile or so to the north. As the Salamander sailed closer they saw it was the lighthouse Fenn had found on the map.
It was low tide so the old lantern room just projected above the waves; a tiny glinting chamber. The panes of glass around it had long been smashed out of their lead glazing bars by the buffeting waves, but the thick, shatterproof lens remained, catching and refracting the early morning sun.
Fenn decided it was too dangerous to take a direct route across the valley estuary to the Punchlock, so instead he navigated the Salamander through the maze of inlets that looked tattered and lacy on the coastline map. After a few hours he found the spot some miles south of the Punchlock. They lowered the Salamander’s red sails and slowly punted upriver.
“We need to find somewhere to moor,” Fathom said to Amber. But she wasn’t listening. She was peering through the reedbeds, scrunching up her face as she tried to see.
“Is that East Isle’s Wall?” she asked, lifting Comfort higher so she could see over the barge’s sides. Fenn nodded, while Fathom and Gulper followed her gaze, squinting through the glaring white light across the marsh. None of them had ever seen a horizon where land met sky, or if they had they’d long forgotten it. In the far distance they could just make out the vast shadow of the Wall; the two ends had been joined at the foundations, but a huge section was still empty and looked like a square bite mark.
“There’s nowhere to hide here,” said Gulper, shrinking from the vastness of the marsh, his eyes wide and round. He wrapped his coat tighter and clamped his hands in his armpits. “I don’t like it.”
Fenn knew he had been right to be cautious; the Salamander would be too obvious if they moored it here in broad daylight.
He climbed up onto the pilot room roof to get a better sense of direction and swung his telescope over the landscape. At last he spotted the stack of a chimney poking out. “Bear right,” he shouted down. Within a few minutes the jetty came into view in the distance, but before they reached it they saw another channel, only just wide enough for the Salamander to pass through. Fenn glimpsed an iron sign with faded letters: “Hill Farm”.
“I know where we are!” he shouted. “Up there.” He pointed. They punted the Salamander up the narrow creek, skimming over the silvery tassel weeds glinting in the clear frosty water.
It was hard work and the sun was high above them by the time they reached the farmhouse. Only the joists of the roof remained above water but its barns and outbuildings were further up the hill, half-submerged. The whole place had been abandoned years earlier, before Halflin’s grandparents were alive, when the land got too waterlogged to farm. Almost everyone in the coastal districts had moved upland after the First Risings, when they were certain there was no hope of ever returning to their farms and houses.
The main barn was as big as a church and made a good hiding place for the barge. Its weatherboards had faded to the soft gleaming silver of birch trees and, like the house, its tiles had been looted, leaving only a few mouldy roof joists, as delicately balanced as a house of cards. Although there was no roof on the barn, ivy had grown up over the far end of the building, dripping down in a thick curtain and giving cover from prying eyes. Autumn leaves, blown from the marsh elder further up the slope, fluttered through the naked rafters and drifted on the water like wet flames, banking against the barn’s rotting walls in fiery, sodden mounds. The children punted the barge inside until they felt the bump as it grounded on the stone floor.
Once the barge was stowed they tore branches off the marsh elder and draped them over the vessel to camouflage it further. Although it had no fuel left, they knew they’d need it again.
“Will your grandad have fuel?” Fathom asked as he wove the leafy fronds together and hung them from the bow.
“Enough to get to West Isle.” Fenn nodded. “He’s been stockpiling for a generator.”
Then they parcelled up the essentials for the journey to Halflin’s and waded through the freezing water up to the higher ground. As they walked, Fenn scanned the horizon: puffy clouds were already scudding across the sky and he noticed white crystals forming on the base of bulrush heads. Halflin used to say, If rush grows a beard, snow’s ter be feared. They needed to be quick – they could freeze to death if they were caught out on the marsh in snow.
But it wasn’t just the cold Fenn was worried about. On the muddy shore, he had seen muntjac deer prints; far apart, which meant they had been running. The prints headed deep into the reeds where they could get tangled in knotweed and drown. They wouldn’t risk drowning unless something more frightening was behind them.
“Hurry up,” he said sharply, tucking Tikki deep down inside his Guernsey to keep warm. “We need to get there before dusk.”
“Which way?” Gulper asked.
“Follow the river. It flows to the Punchlock,” Fenn answered.
They had been walking for three hours and Fenn still wasn’t sure he was heading in the right direction. Snowfall began speckling the empty marshlands and the air became still; not even the sound of reed warblers broke the peace. Dusk was starting to fall on the snowy landscape and they were all frozen. They trudged on, taking turns to carry Comfort, so small she kept getting stuck in the glutinous mud. Ahead, Fenn saw a river with a line of ash trees growing along it, meaning it was one of the older rivers.
“We’re lost aren’t we?” Amber snapped.
“No, I’m just not sure where we are yet,” Fenn said calmly. He wasn’t going to let her panic add to his own. “This way.”
It was harder than he had expected. There was no path, only the line of the reeds, which were so thick and lush it was hard to see the river at all unless they kept close enough. Their boots kept being sucked off in the deep boggy mud, and they were soaked through.
Dusk fell further, turning the sky violet. The first star pricked out, like a needle piercing cloth. They lit the lanterns, tying them into sticks that Fenn had cut clefts into. He was more worried now; a slight wind had picked up, blowing inland from the sea and taking their scent with it.
“We should find somewhere to shelter,” Fathom said.
“I hate this place,” Amber said. “How much longer till we get there?”
“If I could get up higher I’d get a better view of the marsh, maybe see the Punchlock,” Fenn said.
There was a soft rise ahead, a little hillock, breaking the monotonous reeds that grew around it. They headed towards it quickly, but as they climbed up, Fenn knew something wasn’t quite right. He knew higher bits of land should have bushes growing on them, but apart from some short tufts of malnourished grass and yellow lichen, the mound was bare. Ahead of them, Gulper called over his shoulder.
“I can see for miles…”
Then he’d gone. One second he was there, silhouetted against the plum-coloured sky, the next �
�� nothing. Amber screamed.
“Gulper!” Her voice was higher than the boys’ and it smacked the surrounding water like a knife on a glass. Fenn clapped his hand over her mouth.
“Shh!” he hissed. “Lie flat. Spread your weight out.”
Immediately they all lay down as Fenn edged towards the hole Gulper had fallen through. He peered down but it was pitch black inside.
“I think it’s a house!” Gulper called up.
Fenn realised they must be on the roof and quickly threaded a rope through the lamp handle and lowered it down. Below, Gulper was in a room of some kind, half-filled with oozing mud.
Night had nearly fallen and, but for the toads croaking, the marsh was quiet as a grave. From somewhere far off in the distance, faint but distinct, a long, lonely howl spiralled upwards into the night.
22
They tied a rope around one of the roof joists that looked sound and climbed down. As soon as Fenn reached the floor he let Tikki out, but instead of running off to explore, Tikki scampered up and coiled himself nervously around Fenn’s neck. The room was almost completely filled with slimy mud sloping up to the corners of the ceiling. It must have oozed in through the windows as the marsh had grown up around it. From somewhere in the darkness a faint dripping echoed.
“Look around,” whispered Fenn. “Check it’s safe.”
He gave the door a push but it wouldn’t budge. There were panes of glass in it, semi-frosted, with clear pieces of glass etched in a flowery pattern, but it was covered with grime so he couldn’t see through. Fenn turned his back to the door and, using his elbow, he punched the glass. He put his hand through the smashed pane and twisted the handle, but it still wouldn’t open. There was mud banked up against the other side.
Fathom put his shoulder next to Fenn’s and they pushed together. After a couple of shunts they’d nudged it open enough to all squeeze through.
They were in a big panelled hall that had several doors leading off it. Slabs of plaster had fallen away from the walls, leaving patches of wattle and daub, hundreds of years old. It had obviously once been a grand house. Every door they tried was either locked or blocked up with mud on the other side, until they reached one so rotten that it fell off its hinges as it swung open, revealing a short corridor. The walls were covered in embossed wallpaper, which was peeling away from the plaster and now hung in folding drapes. There were pictures of smiling people hanging on the walls; family groups, children being pushed in a tyre hung from a rope, a toddler blowing out miniature candles stuck in a cake. The children were mystified; none of them had seen images like this before and even if they had, none of the scenes bore any resemblance to their own lives.
“D’you think that’s what life’s like behind the Wall?” asked Amber, rubbing her thumb through the dirt on one picture to reveal a pretty girl leaning against a horse whose harness was pinned with a red satin rosette. But Fathom wasn’t going to waste time on dreaming now. He was hungry.
“C’mon,” he said. “I bet there are supplies.”
The others followed him, but Fenn hesitated; he didn’t like how Tikki clung tight to his neck. Something wasn’t right.
They emerged onto a huge landing where the remains of a few banisters wrapped around a sweeping staircase led into a pit of swampy water with algae as thick as custard. Gulper picked up a piece of broken picture frame on the floor and idly chucked it in. It landed with a plop and a few bubbles popped on the surface. The air filled with the putrefying smell of dead water.
“That’s disgusting!” Amber said, holding her nose. Gulper shrugged.
“I’ve smelt worse.”
Fenn was staring at the floor; mud caked the highest treads of the staircase and Fenn noticed a few animal prints, but apart from that, there was no sign of life.
“We need to find somewhere dry for the night and light a fire. Look out for stuff we can burn,” said Fenn.
“In here?” said Fathom, creeping forward with Gulper close behind, followed by Amber who had hitched Comfort onto her back. Fenn brought up the rear, looking over his shoulder at the long dark corridor. Fathom pushed a pair of double doors that opened into an enormous bedroom.
Opposite was a bank of mud that had seeped in between the ceiling joists and the roof, just like in the first room; the whole house was gradually being devoured by the marsh. Carpets still lined the floor, so soggy they were spongy to walk on, and all the way up from the skirting boards to the ceiling were outcrops of fungi, billowing out from the loose plaster, as flat and white as stepping stones. To the right, deep in shadow, was a four-poster bed with deep velvet drapes still drawn around it. In its pelmet a colony of bats clustered together, nestled tight as mussels in the folds of cloth. Opposite the bed a huge stone fireplace took up one wall, with a fancy gilt mirror over the top. The faint light from the lamp barely reached the corners of the room, but they could just make out the enormous cobwebs hanging in dusty swags from a chandelier, soft as wedding veils. Inside, black thick-legged spiders skulked motionless.
It looked like someone had tried to carry on living there; moving their possessions upstairs when the lower rooms got too waterlogged. In the corner stood a few crates and hanging from the wall was a sort of manger, still full of dry sticks and logs. A few tins of food lay on their sides amidst the shredded remains of food packets spoilt by animals. A rusted camping stove had been lodged inside the fireplace and close by a bamboo bookcase slumped drunkenly to the side, its shelves bowing under the weight of mouldering books. Some pages lay scattered around the hearth; the remnants of books that had been used to make fires. There was a smell of rot hanging in the air. Fathom immediately began rifling through the crates, searching for something to eat.
Gulper and Amber had been distracted by the mirror, laughing at how scruffy and filthy they looked. Comfort craned to see and stared at her reflection, then hid her face in confusion only to peep out at herself and smile. Gulper lit a second lamp, which he stood on top of the mantelpiece. The mirror glass reflected the light back into the room, showing a wardrobe on the far side of the bed.
“Look at my hair!” Amber shrieked. She tried to flatten it down, but red tufts kept springing back up.
“What about me?” asked Gulper, pulling back his lips and examining the remains of his teeth. He stared morosely at his reflection. “I didn’t realise I was so ugly,” he said sadly.
“We all are,” Amber said kindly, giving him a friendly slap. She turned to Fenn to smile.
“I’ve found beans … and more beans,” said Fathom laughing, weighing two tins in his hands. But Fenn was silent. Tikki had started trembling.
In the middle of the room Fenn saw a patch of moss growing on the floor in a perfect rectangle. Tikki suddenly slipped down off his shoulders and disappeared into his rucksack, making a mewing sound. The bats shuffled in their sleep, wrapping their ink-black wings closer around themselves, like mackintoshes pulled tight against the rain.
“It’s freezing in here; we’ll need some blankets,” Gulper said, walking towards the wardrobe.
Fenn still didn’t reply. He was thinking about how moss could only grow if there was some daylight coming in. He looked at the steep bank of mud and clambered slowly up. Just as he thought; mud had poured in through a window. The top of it was still visible, but the panes had been broken down by the pressure of the marsh. Fenn could easily crawl out, which meant animals could just as easily get in. That would need blocking up for them to be safe, he thought. He was just about to call down to Fathom to ask him to pass up some wood, when he heard a crack and looked back at the fireplace. It was Comfort. She had slapped her hand against the mirror, and was staring beyond her own reflection, into the room. Her mouth was stretched wide, circling the scream she couldn’t make.
Somebody – or something – was stirring in the bed.
Fenn’s throat went dry with fear. He held his lamp higher so the light from it would reach.
From the innermost black of the bed a ragge
d shadow was rising up, as if the sheets had come alive. Whatever it was lumbered down onto the floor, landing cumbersomely, caught up in the curtains. Fenn watched as it dragged itself up to its full height, inching out from the rotting blanket that clung to its hunched back. A sickly stench drifted out as it shambled out of the gloom and a raw, throaty snarl curdled in the dark. Suddenly two slits of yellow-green reflected the light as it opened its sleepy eyes.
It was a wolf.
Fenn slid back down the mound of earth to get to the others. As he landed at the bottom, his foot hit something hard – a wooden curtain pole, knocked from the window as the mud pushed in. He grabbed it and held it out like a sword. As Amber’s scream broke free from her frozen throat, the bats loosened their grip on the pelmet’s fringe and swooped down into the room, scything spirals around the chandelier.
“Get behind me but don’t turn your back on it,” Fenn whispered. He knew if they ran the wolf would see prey, not predators.
It was old and ill, though it had once been a giant; the alpha in the pack. Now it limped slowly forward into the ring of lantern light, watching them hungrily, and Fenn noticed its paws were splayed wide and its claws had grown so long they corkscrewed beneath its pads from lack of use. Its haunches sagged from muscle waste and its matted fur clung down his back. As it gazed at them it hung its mangy head, almost as if it was ashamed at what age had reduced it to, but deep inside its throat a low menacing growl still rumbled on. It may have been old and skinny, but its teeth were as long and sharp as they’d ever been and Fenn knew a hungry wolf was far more dangerous than a fed one. As the last piece of fabric slipped off its back the bones of a muntjac tumbled out. With sickening dread, Fenn realised that if it wasn’t hunting for itself, then the rest of the pack had to be nearby.
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 18