Em sketched the outline of their animation first. Immediately, Matt discerned what she had in her mind and began to draw with her, sharing the image in their imaginations.
Heads touching, they scribbled across a page of paper so quickly that sparks of light and flakes of colour came popping from the tips of their fingers. A riot of black lines shot upwards, looping, linking, weaving together in the air until a sleek, dark watercraft, a jet ski, appeared on the water in front of them.
Matt jumped on the front before Em could argue and roared the throttle. Em climbed on behind him, gripping him tightly around his waist. The twins bounced out into the tide of vessels on the jet ski, leaving the fisherman watching in stunned disbelief, wondering what terrible plague had seized his brain.
TWELVE
With anxiety twisting in his gut and his shoulders stinging from the soldier’s thrashing, Zach watched the twins disappear from his sight through a tear in the thick black curtains that the driver had dropped over the sides of the police wagon, as if something distasteful and disturbing lurked underneath.
He shifted on to his knees and took in his surroundings. He was next to three sleeping children piled one on top of the other like sacks of flour and two boys – at least he thought they were boys – who looked no more than seven or eight years old. All the children had a similar look to them. They seemed terribly old.
Underneath the muck that coated each child’s body and the matted hair that hung limply against their faces, Zach sensed not fear but resignation and something else – hunger. When he focused his mind on to one of the boys nearest him, Zach also picked up a thin thread of hope that wherever they were going, they would be given something to eat.
Zach’s stomach rumbled. Jeannie had made a roast for lunch, which meant thick beef sandwiches and slices of sweet onions from the Abbey’s garden would be on the table for supper. Zach looked at the skeletal bodies of the sleeping children pressed next to him and felt guilt for his salivating.
Because Zach had been the last one picked up by the wagon, he was pressed against the door. He hoped the lock was as rusty on the inside as it looked on the outside.
Zach, we’re coming, I promise.
He had only been to London once with his dad a couple of years ago, when they had come down from Scotland to see an exhibition at the Royal Academy, so Zach had no frame of reference for where the bouncing cart was taking him. Slipping his penknife from his pocket, he huddled over the wagon’s lock. It would be easier for everyone if he escaped this wheeled cage and met Matt and Em on the road.
He jiggled, turned, and twisted the end of his knife in the lock.
Nothing.
‘What you doing?’ asked one of the boys crammed next to him.
Zach continued, unaware of the boy addressing him until the boy slapped the knife from Zach’s hand and scrambled over the sleeping children to press his filthy face into Zach’s. Another boy reached the knife before Zach could retrieve it, tossing it to the first boy, who thrust it against Zach’s throat.
‘I asked you a question.’
Although he looked younger than Zach, the boy had already lost many of his front teeth. His breath was as foul as the air in the wagon, and his eyes were dead.
Zach grabbed the boy’s knife hand and squeezed his wrist.
You don’t want to hurt me, Zach projected into the boy’s mind. You’re tired and you’re so very hungry and you’ll feel much better if you ignore me.
The boy’s grip loosened on the knife enough for Zach to roll away. Quickly, Zach flipped on to his back, pressed his feet against the lock and kicked with all his might. The lock snapped. He tore open the draped tarp and, without thinking about where he was going to end up, he jumped out and into the seething streets of Victorian London.
THIRTEEN
The twins skimmed across the surface of the River Thames on the jet ski, Em’s eyes focused on the black-draped wagon labouring above them on the Embankment. Matt was doing his best to dodge in and out of the slow-moving barges and torpedo-shaped steam ships cluttering the river’s lanes. Two sailors yelled in astonishment from a barge, and a few tenants of a row of slum housing, lining a section of the Embankment like stacked shoe boxes, yelled for them to stop, but for the most part the twins and their jet ski might have been invisible.
I’m out! I’m heading back towards Big Ben.
Em started at the sound of Zach’s voice in her head.
Matt! Zach’s out of the wagon. Turn round. He’s running back the way he just went.
Communicating telepathically made it easier for the twins to hear each other over the roar of the traffic around them. They could also keep their mouths closed and not have to swallow the stench.
The river was sweating filth.
Matt cut the craft into its own wake, barely missing two punters dressed for a picnic with their colourfully dressed lady friends in wide-brimmed hats. The waves bounced and tipped the spluttering picnickers out of their boats and into the water.
‘Sorry,’ yelled Em, as the four shocked Victorians crawled to the safety of the riverbank, their baskets, boats, straw hats and parasols floating away from them in the strong current.
Above them, Zach was sprinting back towards Charing Cross Bridge. Two policemen, looking like extras from a silent film, were in close pursuit, having heard the warning bells of the wagon driver when his vehicle had been emptied of its cargo seconds after Zach tumbled to the street.
Zach spotted a horse-drawn omnibus pulling away from a crowded pedestrian stand. Cutting into the street, he ran, leaping on to the bus platform, bouncing the entire bus as he did so. He scrambled up the circular steps to the top deck. The policemen were still following, and so was the child-catcher in the black wagon.
There’s a posse chasing me.
Unfortunately for Zach, the omnibus took on and released passengers regularly. The men chasing him were catching up. At the next stop, he would be trapped.
Em could now see Zach standing at the rear of the bus, watching the chase on the road behind him. Matt darted between two coal barges and shot underneath Charing Cross Bridge as Em clung to his waist.
Matt flung a thought at his twin sister.
Tell Zach to get on the pedestrian side of the bridge. He’ll lose them in the crowds up there.
Em stared up at the bridge packed with pedestrians walking across to the east bank of the Thames and a line of sad-looking men and women pushing their overflowing carts along the edges of the bridge. There was hardly any space between them and the rails.
Zach? At the next bus stop, climb off.
But they’ll catch me.
Not if you climb on to the struts of the railway bridge.
Matt was doing his best to hold the jet ski steady as they bounced beneath in the waves.
‘We can’t sit here like rubber ducks for long, Em,’ he yelled. ‘It’s too dangerous. We’ll be spotted.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Em, patting their sketch of Monet’s painting tucked away in her pocket. ‘But Zach needs to get off that bus. And fast.’
FOURTEEN
At Charing Cross Station, the mail sacks had been loaded on to the train. Leaning from his carriage, the conductor whistled his signal to the driver in the engine at the front. The driver signalled the engineer, who fired up the boiler.
A belch of black smoke followed by coughs of white steam erupted from the funnel, filling the station. The train’s pistons gasped and wheezed, its iron limbs spewing steam, chugging the train from the station, gathering speed as it emerged into the daylight, on to the bridge and over the River Thames.
Zach waited until most of the passengers had climbed down from the top deck of the omnibus before he jumped, scraping his arms and legs as he landed on the struts of the railway bridge.
You need to get to the footbridge fast, Zach. If the police climb to the top of the bus, they’ll see you. When you’ve made it, jump over and into the river. We’ll tear up the sketch as you�
�re falling and get us all out of here.
That’s your best plan?
Zach’s terror jarred Em’s mind.
Trust me.
‘Aw, man,’ said Matt, shifting the jet ski closer to the bridge.
An official-looking tug boat was steaming towards them.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Matt, panicking.
‘Try to keep us steady for a few more minutes,’ said Em. Her heart was pounding at the audacity of what they were trying to do.
Zach had climbed the struts of the bridge and disappeared. Em could no longer see him.
She could hear the train whistle as it thundered into view, looking like an iron monster belching black smoke and white steam. The men chasing Zach were on the top of the bus, pointing and shouting.
Em followed their gestures. Her heart froze. Zach had made a mistake. Instead of dropping down on to the footbridge, he had ended up on the train tracks. She could see him desperately trying to find a way off. The locomotive was charging at him, its bells and whistles screaming, the bridge vibrating with its weight and speed.
‘Matt!’ Em screamed. ‘Zach’s on the tracks!’
On the bridge, Zach felt the locomotive before he saw its massive face rising up out of the steam on the crest of the bridge.
Climb over the side and jump! Now, Zach!
The train was charging closer. Zach’s heart was racing and his mouth was dry. Tears were gathering in his eyes, blurring his vision. He felt sick. He was going to die, and his dad would never know what had happened to him.
This isn’t going to work, Em. The train’s too fast and the steam is going to burn me alive.
Matt steadied the jet ski directly under Zach’s tiny figure on the bridge. Em was crying, feeling Zach’s terror. Behind the twins, the tug boat was almost upon them.
Jump, Zach!
You’re out of your mind! We’ll all die if I land on top of you.
We’re not going to let you hit us. Matt thinks if we tear up the sketch as soon as you get close, we’ll be okay.
Matt THINKS? This is so not a great plan, Em!
‘Jump!’ screamed Matt, even though he knew Zach couldn’t hear him.
‘Oh no! No!’ screamed Em in horror. ‘The train’s going to hit him! It’s too late!’ Jump!
The engine was bearing down on Zach, a black beast spewing fire. And Zach was swallowed up in clouds of hissing steam and choking black smoke, the sounds of Em’s cries filling his head.
PART TWO
FIFTEEN
The Monastery of Era Mina
Middle Ages
After taking his leave of Brother Renard, Cornelius and the Abbot, Solon made his way down to the water’s edge. Dusk was falling, and as if someone had already summoned it, the peryton was waiting on the shore, its wings folded back against its haunches, its silvery antlers and lustrous coat shimmering like crushed velvet and illuminating the spot with its enchanted brilliance. At the sound of Solon approaching, the beast lifted its head and stretched to its full height.
Solon held out his hand in greeting. The beast trotted forward, bending its forelegs and tilting its antlers to meet Solon’s careful caress.
‘Greetings, my friend,’ said Solon, stroking the stag’s thick neck, feeling a warmth radiating up his arm and into his chest.
Suddenly, despite the task ahead, Solon’s whole being filled with confidence, the fears he had about entering Skinner’s Bog diminishing in his mind. He felt the way he did when the Abbot calmed him.
Had the peryton the power to inspirit?
Solon climbed on to the peryton’s back. With graceful ease, the creature rose up into the moonlit sky, its gleaming white presence gliding over the tall trees and looking to the curious villagers below like a swift silver cloud. The peryton’s wingspan was wider than the spreading branches of the greatest tree in the forest, and yet it flew with only a faint whoosh of its wings.
Solon peered down in wonder as the monastery and Brother Renard’s partly-built tower on the northern tip of Era Mina sank away beneath him. From this vantage point, he could see the islands in their entirety for the first time. He marvelled at how tranquil they looked.
Shifting forward, Solon gripped the peryton’s neck.
‘You need not worry about navigating to the bog,’ the Abbot had told him. ‘The peryton will find the place.’
A rough journey that would have taken Solon hours on foot had taken only moments. The silvery white peryton landed between two tall pines, the feathered tips of its wings grazing the branches and leaving a patina of white on the leaves like a dusting of snow. Kneeling on its front legs, the peryton let Solon slide on to the crunchy undergrowth that littered the forest floor. Skinner’s Bog was directly ahead of him. He’d seen it from above.
For a moment, Solon stood with his back to the peryton, getting his bearings. He felt small and vulnerable in the creature’s company, but sensed no threat from the magnificent beast – only a buzzing heat from its body. The peryton had brought him to the centre of Auchinmurn, beside the island’s highest peak, riddled with caves and treacherous pitched overhangs that had seen many a robber or smuggler wandering in the dark and falling over the edge to the jagged rocks below.
Solon crouched and picked up a handful of pine-needles. There was no scent, no perfume from the pine, no suggestion of the wild mint that Solon knew was everywhere on these islands. This was the most isolated place he had ever been.
The wind was still, the stars bright. But beneath the canopy of the tall pines and oaks, they contributed very little light. In the glow from the peryton, Solon took a few steps towards the Devil’s Dyke – a ring of monolithic standing stones that formed a barrier round the bog. The villagers on Auchinmurn and many of the monks believed the Devil and his minions had erected this megalith to protect the bog’s secrets. Legend told that only the Devil himself, riding on his black stag, could pass through the stones and the impenetrable undergrowth beyond.
Solon leaped out of his skin as he heard the sound of grass being torn up somewhere to his left, before realizing that it was only wild sheep grazing nearby. He felt a change in the air around him. The darkness was heavy, as if it had a presence. Up this high, the night was tangible. A sheen of sweat settled beneath his leather tunic and leggings. The gloom felt as if it was seeping under his garments and crawling along his skin.
He rubbed his arms together. It was cold. In the darkness, he could barely make out the thick swirling outlines of nettles and hawthorn bushes crowded together beyond the stones, their leaves glistening in the pale starlight.
The peryton stood to its full height, startling Solon from his reverie. Its eyes blazed with a light so strong that it illuminated everything. Solon stared at the brightly lit thorny briars and nettles surrounding the obelisks before him. How was he ever going to get through that tangled mass?
The peryton pounded its hoofs on the ground and raised its wings high into the air. But the creature did not lift up into the heavens. Instead, Solon had to jump out of its path as it trotted forward, the light radiating from its body revealing a narrow opening through the jagged thorns that Solon would swear had not been there a moment ago.
The peryton had created a path for him.
Solon inched forward. When he reached the opening in the thorn bushes, he placed his hand on the peryton’s flank with his heart pounding in his own ears. Creature and boy walked together into the narrow gap, the darkness a weight on Solon’s head and shoulders.
SIXTEEN
The landscape changed in an instant, the ground softening and the air thickening. When Solon felt the dry undergrowth shift to swamp under his feet, he noticed that the peryton was no longer next to him. The creature had stopped at the perimeter of the bog, holding its head high and keeping a blanket of light on the desolate landscape.
Stepping out of the twisted brambles, Solon suddenly plunged to his knees into the putrid muck of Skinner’s Bog. His leggings caked with thick black silt, S
olon felt himself being pulled into complete darkness. He could no longer see the peryton, or its light. Terrified, he turned around. More darkness.
Panic and bile bubbled in his gut. Then he saw the light, and sensed the peryton’s steadfastness. It was helping him, projecting its strength to him.
Solon touched the leather pouch fastened round his waist and took two more steps forward. He had to keep his bearings. If he could make it to the centre of the bog and find the rowan tree, Brother Cornelius would be able to heal those who were still suffering.
That way, he thought, shifting a little to his left.
But then he stopped. To go in that direction would take him away from the centre.
It was so dark that Solon couldn’t tell any more which way was forward. The peryton calmed the young novice, suffusing him with a fresh wave of understanding. Now Solon knew that he had to move to his right.
Each lunging step he took drained Solon’s will to continue. But the peryton’s light filled his mind and buoyed him to take the next step, and the next. The darkness had become so heavy that the boy was hunching over as he walked.
A gust of fetid air and a long, low howl suddenly blasted Solon on to his back. He could feel himself sinking, his arms and legs being sucked into the bog. Hauling himself out of the muck, he focused on the horrible howling. It was impossible to fix the direction it was coming from.
His breath caught in his throat as a shadow rose out of the darkness in front of him. Not a bear, but close in shape and size, with red-hot slits for eyes. The creature was oozing from every part of its body, dark essence dripping to the bog like tar. And the smell. It was as if someone had desecrated a grave.
Solon wanted to run, but his feet were stuck. He wanted to yell, but his voice was frozen in his throat.
There was the sound of a splash at the edge of the bog. The Grendel turned its burning eyes away from Solon, the sound distracting its attention. The boy trembled as the monster’s feral howling changed to a snapping of jaws: slobbering, slurping, chewing. The howling began again, but from deeper in the bog now.
The Bone Quill Page 4