Kip could tell she wanted him to speak, but he didn’t feel like talking about himself. The knitting needles kept jousting between her fingers.
‘What are you knitting?’ he asked.
‘A cardigan,’ she replied.
‘Who’s it for?’ he asked.
‘For the brave soldiers guarding our frontier. I knit one every month and send it to the army as my contribution to our nation’s defence. Poor chaps are posted high up in the mountains along our northern borders. They must get very cold guarding the passes.’
‘How do you know it’ll fit?’
‘I knit them all the same size,’ she said. ‘Soldiers are usually large, and if the sleeves are too long, they can roll up the cuffs.’
Kip imagined the soldiers receiving their sweaters and trying them on.
‘Do you know what a cardigan is?’ Mrs Lobo asked.
‘Not exactly,’ said Kip. ‘It’s some kind of sweater, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but there’s a lot of history behind it,’ said Mrs Lobo. ‘It’s named after Lord Cardigan, who ordered the Charge of the Light Brigade. Have you heard of that?’
Kip shook his head, though he had a vague memory of a poem or a story from one of his history books last year.
‘The English were fighting the Russians,’ said Mrs Lobo, ‘in a very cold place called Crimea, so they all needed sweaters.’
Kip reached over and picked up his cocoa, taking a sip. Too late, he realized a layer of skin had formed on top. He hated skin; it made him gag. Now he had his mouth to the cup and a clot of cream was sticking to his upper lip, while Mrs Lobo kept talking.
‘There’s a lot of history connected to knitting, particularly when it comes to the Charge of the Light Brigade. Have you heard of a balaclava?’
Kip nodded. This past winter, his aunts made him wear one of those woollen monkey caps that made his ears prickle. But right now, he was trying to spit the skin back into his cup without Mrs Lobo noticing.
‘Balaclava is the place in Crimea where the English cavalry charged directly into the Russian cannons. More than half of them were killed or wounded. So, you see, the cardigan and the balaclava have a heroic history,’ the housemother rattled on. ‘And I bet you’ve never heard of a raglan sleeve, have you?’
Kip used his tongue to unstick the skin from his lip and spat it back into the cup, after which he was able to sit up straight again. He shook his head.
‘Lord Raglan was a British general. He had lost an arm in battle. That’s why the seam on a raglan sleeve tapers down from the shoulder, because the general’s sweaters only needed one arm. You see how interesting and exciting knitting can be, full of romance and history.’
Kip turned the cup around in his hand and slurped the warm cocoa, avoiding the skin, which clung to the opposite rim.
‘I like to think I’m doing my part, preserving tradition,’ said Mrs Lobo, ‘and it’s comforting to know that my sweaters are keeping soldiers warm on the frontier, standing guard alone on some snowbound pass.’
For a minute she fell silent, and the only sound was the clicking of her needles. Kip finished the last of the cocoa and put his cup down, thinking he should excuse himself. But Mrs Lobo looked up with a concerned, inquisitive expression.
‘Poor Kip! I’m sure it must be difficult for you,’ she said, ‘knowing that your parents are in jail.’
He felt a sudden tug of panic and anger, wondering how his housemother had discovered his secret.
‘They’re innocent,’ he blurted out.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Lobo. ‘I’m sure that’s how you must feel.’
‘No! Somebody cheated at the bank where they worked, and they got blamed. But they aren’t guilty,’ Kip said. ‘They shouldn’t be in prison. It’s wrong! It’s a lie!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Lobo, though he could tell she didn’t believe him.
‘My parents tried to explain to the judge, but he wouldn’t listen . . .’ Kip cried. ‘It was all a mistake. They never stole any money. It was someone else.’
Mrs Lobo put down her sweater, the knitting needles resting in her lap. She looked at him with watchful eyes.
‘Now, be a good boy, Kip. Don’t get upset. It’s a terrible thing when our parents do something wrong,’ she said. ‘But sooner or later, you must learn to accept it.’
‘No! It’s not true!’ shouted Kip, getting up from his chair and feeling his eyes burning with tears. ‘You don’t know anything! They aren’t guilty!’
‘Calm down,’ said Mrs Lobo sternly. ‘I won’t have you speaking to me like that and raising your voice.’
Kip headed for the door.
‘I hate this school,’ he said. ‘It’s a stupid, horrible place! And you’re nothing but a crazy old witch!’
By the time he said this, he was already halfway down the stairs, wiping his tears on the rough sleeve of his blazer.
Nine
As Kip ran down the steps, he saw the dormitory door swing open. Two teachers were coming out with Scruggs between them. They were holding his arms as if he might try to run away, but there was a look of resignation on Scruggs’ face, as if he had been expecting them to take him away and knew there wasn’t any point in struggling. As soon as he caught sight of Kip, his eyes brightened for a moment, as if he hoped his friend might help, though he said nothing.
‘What’s wrong?’ Kip asked, blinking away the last of his tears.
‘Step aside,’ said one of the teachers, a bearded man as tall as Scruggs.
‘Mind your own business, boy,’ snapped the other, who was shorter but built like a wrestler.
They moved past Kip and hustled Scruggs down the hall.
‘Where are you taking him?’ Kip cried, starting to follow.
Scruggs glanced back over his shoulder and shook his head, warning Kip.
At the same moment, Mrs Lobo came hobbling down the stairs.
‘Wretched boy!’ she screamed. ‘How dare you call me a witch! Now get into your dorm before I give you a hiding you’ll never forget.’
Mrs Lobo didn’t look as if she could give anyone a hiding, but Kip realized that he wouldn’t be able to help his friends if he got himself into trouble. While Scruggs and the teachers disappeared into the shadows at the end of the hall, he turned reluctantly and entered the dorm. By this time, Mrs Lobo had caught hold of his ear, and she was twisting it between her fingers.
‘Ungrateful rogue!’ she said.
The rest of the boys were all in bed, peering nervously over their covers as Kip was marched to his bunk. He could see a couple of figures standing at the far end of the room. As they got closer, Kip recognized the principal.
The warden was there too, searching through Scruggs’ cupboard, examining his belongings, books and papers. Captain Lovelock turned and saw Kip.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded with a snarl.
Mrs Lobo finally let go of Kip’s ear and stood triumphantly beside her victim.
‘Gross insubordination, sir!’ she cried. ‘I tried to comfort this boy and gave him a nice cup of hot cocoa, but he raised his voice and called me names I dare not repeat!’
The principal put his riding crop under Kip’s chin and made him look up. This time, Kip stared into Captain Lovelock’s bloodshot eyes, rather than at his polished boots.
‘Kip, isn’t it?’ said the principal. ‘You’re the new boy.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Kip, the riding crop digging into his chin.
‘Looks as if a night in the Crypt might do you some good! Hah!’ said Captain Lovelock. ‘What do you say to that?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Kip replied. ‘I haven’t been to the Crypt.’
‘Well, I’m sure it will sort you out. You’ll think twice before talking back to your elders, eh!’
The warden turned around and shook his head.
‘Nothing here, sir,’ he said. ‘Nothing incriminating.’
‘All right,’ Lovelock replied. ‘We’ll get the truth o
ut of them sooner or later. I’ll go and make sure the other two have been rounded up, if you wouldn’t mind taking this lad to the Crypt for tonight.’
‘With pleasure,’ said the warden, exchanging a smile with Mrs Lobo.
Instead of grabbing Kip’s ear, the warden caught hold of his collar and pulled him along, while the other students in the dorm watched in silence from their beds. Once they were outside, the warden eased his grip, though he kept hold of Kip’s blazer.
‘You’re lucky it’s only one night,’ he said. ‘The principal’s going easy on you because you’ve just arrived.’
‘What’s the Crypt?’ Kip asked.
The warden snickered to himself but didn’t reply, as they started down a winding set of stairs that spiralled into the depths of the mountain. The walls around them were solid rock and the warden shone a torch to light their way. The two of them descended into what looked like a deep, dry well. When they finally reached the bottom, Kip could see a locked grille covering the mouth of a cave. The warden unlocked the grille and pushed Kip inside. He shone the torch down a long passage, where Kip could see a line of tombstones.
‘Our founder is buried here,’ said the warden, ‘along with most of the teachers who went before us. You’ll find yourself in excellent company.’
With a muffled laugh, he pulled the grille shut, turned the key in the padlock, then headed upstairs. As the light from his torch wound its way up the steps, it grew fainter and fainter until Kip was left in darkness, so black and silent, he felt as if he had been buried in a tomb.
Sitting down with his back to the grille, Kip could hear his heart beating in his ears, and he wondered how many hours it would be until they released him. Or maybe they would forget to let him out and he would be imprisoned in the Crypt forever, starving to death or eaten alive by rats and ghouls.
Kip sat with his eyes squeezed shut and his chin pressed against his knees. He wrapped both arms about his legs to keep from shivering. A minute went by and then another and another . . . but soon, Kip lost all track of time. It could have been an hour or two before he finally opened his eyes, though it made no difference because the darkness was so complete, he couldn’t even see the end of his nose.
Ten
During the night, Kip didn’t sleep at all. A couple of times, he heard what sounded like mice creeping about, but mostly there was silence, as if the world had been swallowed by darkness. He reached into his pocket and took out a penknife, a present his father had given him a year ago. Though the blade was dull and only 2 inches long, it was all he had to defend himself. As he sat with the penknife held in one hand, Kip swore to himself that if he ever got out of there alive, the first thing he’d do would be to run away from the school, though he didn’t know how or where he would go. Everything seemed hopeless and unfair—the way his two aunts had abandoned him, the principal’s cruel sneer and Mrs Lobo’s cynical suggestion that his parents were actually guilty.
Kip wondered what had happened to Scruggs and the others. He wished they were here with him in the Crypt. It was so dark, his hands were invisible when he held them up to his face and wiped away his tears. As hours and minutes stretched on, the night grew colder and the stones on which he sat and the iron bars of the locked grille he was leaning against seemed to turn into ice. He shivered inside his uniform and tried to tuck himself into a huddled knot.
Then, off in the distance, he saw a faint glimmer. At first, he thought he was imagining things, but as the glowing bead of light grew brighter, he realized that it was coming towards him. Terrified, Kip thought it might be a ghost, and he gripped the penknife tightly in his fist. The light moved slowly forward, as if it were searching among the gravestones. Soon he realized it was a torch with worn-out batteries that barely cast a beam of light. Kip couldn’t see who was carrying it, but he heard the shuffle of slippers on the floor.
Finally, when the light was only a few feet away, the beam was cast on his face, and Kip stared up at the stooped figure in the shadows.
‘Hushhh!’ whispered a familiar voice. ‘Don’t make a sound. I’m here to help you. Just follow me.’
As the torch beam turned aside, Kip recognized who it was. Brother Lazarus beckoned for him to follow. The old man was bundled up in a thick woollen dressing gown that reached his ankles, and he was wearing a scarf wrapped about his ears. In the dim light, Kip saw the profile of the teacher’s nose and his bony fingers clutching the torch.
‘Come along,’ he whispered.
‘Where are we going?’ Kip asked softly, as he put away his knife.
‘Eh? What’s that?’ Brother Lazarus replied, holding one hand to his ear, which was covered by the scarf.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Kip said, a little louder this time and leaning close to the old man’s face.
‘I’m going to get you out of here,’ said Lazarus. ‘Now, quiet, boy. No more questions!’
Remembering the bubbling beakers of poison in the toxicology lab, Kip wondered if he should trust Brother Lazarus, but he didn’t have a choice.
They moved slowly through the Crypt. Every couple of steps, Brother Lazarus paused and shone his torch on one of the gravestones, reading the name in a soft murmur. When they came to the largest grave, he paused and leaned down to brush the dust and cobwebs off the stone.
‘Our founder,’ he said in a whisper. ‘A great man and a good friend. No bones about it. He knew his stuff!’
Kip wanted to ask all kinds of questions, but Brother Lazarus raised a crooked finger to his chapped lips and shuffled on. They made their way to the end of the Crypt and turned into a narrow passage. Kip had to duck down, though Brother Lazarus was so stooped, his head didn’t touch the ceiling. They came to a set of stairs, and Kip was worried the old man might trip and fall. His breathing rasped loudly as they climbed to a landing. At the top, Brother Lazarus paused to catch his breath.
‘Why are you helping me?’ Kip asked.
‘What’s that?’ the teacher said. ‘What? What?’
‘Sir, I said . . .’ Kip leaned closer. ‘Why would you help me escape?’
Brother Lazarus’ eyes blinked behind the thick lenses of his spectacles as he stared at Kip.
‘Because I know you’ve done nothing wrong,’ he whispered. ‘Our school wasn’t always like this. Believe you me. It used to be a happy, healthy place, but ever since these thugs took over, it’s become a prison camp . . .’ He shook his head with dismay, then took another deep breath and led Kip on down a wider hall with windows along one side, through which he could see a few stars in the night sky.
Several times, Brother Lazarus’s torch began to die. Whenever the light went out, they were momentarily trapped in darkness, but he rattled it in his hand and the yellow bulb came back to life. Finally, they reached a wooden door with a heavy padlock. The old man fumbled with a set of keys, all different shapes and sizes. When the door finally creaked open, Kip followed him inside and saw at once that they were in the Menagerium. Stuffed animals peered down from all sides: otters and wild cats, eagles and a fierce-looking hyena. As they moved down the aisle, Kip could see the hairy profile of the Abominable Snowman leaning forward with arms outstretched in the faint halo of the old man’s torch. Though he knew it wasn’t alive, Kip shuddered.
After leaving the Menagerium, they made their way down another hall. Kip wished they could move faster, but the old man’s pace was painfully slow. He was worried that one of the guards might see the glimmer of the torch and raise an alarm, but nobody seemed to be around.
At last they came to another door at the end of the passage, just as Brother Lazarus’s torch died again. He shook it a couple of times but the bulb only flickered and immediately went out. The batteries had completely worn down. Muttering under his breath, the old man fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown.
‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Light a match so I can see the lock.’
Kip took the box but had trouble removing a match because his hands were shaking.
‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ the old man whispered.
The flame flared up much brighter than the torch. Kip held it out towards the keyhole in the door. Overhead, he could see a sign: QUARANTINE.
It took several matches before Brother Lazarus found the right key. When he did, the lock seemed to stick as he twisted it back and forth. Eventually though, Kip heard a click and the door swung open.
Inside was a room like a hospital ward, with two rows of uncomfortable-looking beds. Most of these were empty, but at the far end, Kip saw somebody sit up. Three other figures lay under the covers. One by one they rolled over and stared at the flare of the match.
‘Who’s there?’ It was Scruggs.
‘Me.’
‘Kip!’ cried Juniper.
‘Quickly, quickly,’ Brother Lazarus whispered. ‘You’ve got to get up and get dressed.’
The match burnt out and Kip heard the rustling of bedcovers as his friends scrambled to their feet and began pulling on socks and shirts. By the time he struck another match, they were all standing together in a circle, brushing the sleep from their eyes and staring in amazement at the old man in front of them. Aside from Juniper, Scruggs and Meghna, there was another boy. Kip realized this must be Ameel, the one who was caught first.
‘Now, I’ve done whatever I can,’ said Brother Lazarus. ‘The rest is up to you. Another half hour and the sun will be up, so you’d better get out while you can . . .’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Juniper.
‘Don’t thank me,’ the old man replied. ‘I wouldn’t have helped you if I didn’t think injustice was being done. This school used to be the kind of place where we accepted all sorts of students, but no more! They’ve ruined it, I’m afraid. It’s no longer about education. Just rules and regulations. Back in the day, Verum Libertas meant something, but our motto has been corrupted. There’s neither truth nor liberty any more, just a lot of talk about “excellence”, when they don’t even know what it means.’
The Cloudfarers Page 5