Thus it was far more by luck than by good management that not long after reaching more level ground they stumbled through a last barrier of trees and found themselves in the grassy glade once more.
At least, it seemed to be the same grassy glade. Becky looked about it hoping to find evidence of their having been there: the flattened grass perhaps where she had lain on her back or where Johnny had sat.
However, before she could make out the tell-tale crushed grass she saw something else. She gripped Johnny’s arm and pointed.
There on the grass by the far edge of trees, was a small wicker basket.
‘Hey!’ breathed Johnny.
They hurried across the grass, Becky noting as they did so that this was in fact their glade as they stepped over the area they had crushed with their bodies. That fact was hardly important now given the discovery of the basket.
‘There’s fruit in it!’ Johnny exclaimed.
‘Fruit?’
‘Strawberries and scrawny little apples and stuff,’ said Johnny as Becky joined him. ‘Look!’
It was true. The little basket held an assortment of what looked to be wild strawberries, small crab apples both red and yellow, and some other small fruits that Becky did not recognise.
‘What’s it doing here?’ asked Johnny.
Becky shrugged. Why did Johnny always think she would know the answers to unanswerable questions? ‘How on earth would I know?’ she asked. ‘I guess somebody’s gathering fruit from the forest.’
‘That would mean they must be close by,’ said Johnny.
Becky looked at him mock-sympathetically. ‘If they are, it would,’ she said. ‘If they’re not, it wouldn’t.’
Sensing her sarcasm, Johnny looked a little hurt. ‘What else could it mean?’
Becky shrugged again. She bent down and picked up the basket. It was simply but exquisitely fashioned in a complicated weave and stained in a dark chestnut colour. It was a beautiful object in its own right, and filled with the brightly coloured fruits it was even more beautiful. Instinctively, Becky plucked a small strawberry from the basket and popped it into her mouth. Though small it was deliciously cool and sharply sweet, and she closed her eyes the better to savour the flavour.
‘You shouldn’t do that,’ said Johnny.
‘Why not? It was delicious and I’m famished. Have one. You’ve been complaining about needing a burger for hours.’
‘But they’re not ours. Someone has gathered them for themselves, and could be back any moment.’
‘So?’ said Becky.
‘So it’s stealing.’
‘Rubbish. Whoever left it here wouldn’t mind our having one or two. Have one!’
The berries did look delicious. Johnny, though he looked troubled, succumbed and tentatively took a strawberry which he put in his mouth.
‘I wonder who left it here,’ he said, shaking his head when Becky insisted he have another.
‘Don’t be so noble,’ she said. ‘Anyway, have you thought that it may have been left here deliberately for us to find?’
Johnny looked at her, and his eyes widened a little. ‘Do you really think so? Who would have done that?’
Becky took another couple of strawberries and chewed and swallowed them greedily. Then she took a yellow crab apple and bit into it. It was slightly bitter but edible enough. Then she looked at Johnny. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it was Little Red Riding Hood.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ snapped Johnny. However he did reach into the basket and take some more fruit.
‘Why not?’ asked Becky. ‘That wouldn’t be more bizarre than all the other things that have been going on.’
Johnny did not respond, but he continued to chew guiltily, and then he reached into the basket again.
‘Anyway,’ continued Becky. ‘I don’t know why you’re being such a wimp about eating a little fruit. The normal rules don’t apply any more here.’
Johnny looked at her worriedly. ‘Don’t say stuff like that,’ he whispered. ‘They have to.’
Becky shrugged. ‘Have it your own way,’ she said. ‘But just don’t expect me to starve because of ordinary rules or anything like that. If you ask me, it’s the law of the jungle here.’
‘We don’t have to become animals though,’ said Johnny.
‘We are animals, you egg!’ grinned Becky.
Johnny was not to be dissuaded. ‘We still have to use our heads,’ he said. ‘And I don’t reckon you used yours when you started scoffing those strawberries.’
‘Why not?’ asked Becky, choosing one of the unknown fruits now and putting it in her mouth. It was vaguely sweet with a mealy texture.
‘Because they might have been poisonous.’
‘Strawberries aren’t poisonous!’
‘Or poisoned,’ Johnny added.
This did stop Becky in her tracks. It was something she had not considered. Instinctively she spat the mealy fruit out.
‘Didn’t think of that, did you?’ said Johnny triumphantly. ‘Oldest trick in the world … a basket of poisoned fruit … Bait on a fishhook. What was the story? Snow White?’
‘They weren’t poisoned,’ said Becky, although not so confidently. ‘They tasted fine.’
Johnny looked around the grassy glade. He was listening carefully, but the trees gave nothing away and the only sounds were those of birds and the faint soughing of the breeze.
‘It’s all very quiet,’ he said.
There were only two or three pieces of fruit left in the basket. ‘Want any more?’ asked Becky.
Johnny shook his head. He had convinced himself. He had convinced Becky too. She placed the basket back on the grass and said, ‘Well, we’d better get moving. We should try to find where that smoke’s coming from before it gets dark.’
Johnny nodded and gave her a rueful little grin. ‘Or before we die from poisoned fruit.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Becky. She was reasonably sure the fruit had been fine, but Johnny had sown a seed of doubt, and she knew, too, that they shouldn’t have taken things for granted. She trusted she’d remember this if and when they found the source of the smoke.
Becky hoped that by keeping to a straight line and heading to their left they would eventually reach the grassland that lay beyond the woods. As they left the glade, both she and Johnny kept a wary lookout. They were less confident now of being in a totally unpopulated area. First there had been the sound of the engine, then the smoke and finally the basket of berries and crab apples.
The shadows lengthened as they made their way through the trees. Every now and again they would stop as if by mutual consent and listen keenly. However, all they ever heard were birds and the sound of the leaves. Even so they were not convinced that the shadows all belonged to branches, the rustling solely caused by the breeze.
‘Do you think we’re being watched?’ Johnny asked nervously, looking around in all directions during one of their many stop-and-listen pauses.
Becky nodded. She would have liked to have said Nonsense, it’s just your imagination in overdrive but she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they were being followed. It was a feeling she couldn’t cast aside.
‘It was that basket,’ said Johnny.
‘I know,’ said Becky.
It was the basket.
Somebody had left it there. The berries were quite freshly picked so the person could not have been very far away. Surely they would have heard Becky and Johnny as they stumbled through the trees. At that stage they were making no attempt to keep quiet.
Why had the berry picker or berry pickers not made contact? Were they shy? Or were they as nervous themselves as she and Johnny were? Had that fruit been doctored in some way? Were they being followed so that when they fell they could be …? Becky did not want to think about that. Instead she looked about with the possibility of catching some movement, some flash or flicker in the increasingly gloomy forest.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, abruptly setting off once
more, and Johnny nodded silently and hurried to catch up with her.
In this way, by nervous fits and starts they continued their journey.
And then, suddenly and without warning, the trees ended and they found themselves stepping on to grassland.
‘Which way?’ Johnny asked.
Before them lay the steep slopes of the other side of the valley. It clearly opened up on to the plain they had seen from the heights. The limestone escarpments were cream in the fading light; all else was forest. Somewhere, before the hills would be the river, and beyond that, the sea they had seen from the plateau on top of the outcrop. Becky briefly considered striking out across the grassy valley floor to the river and water, but felt that it was more important to find the source of the smoke. There would be something to drink there, surely. She pointed to her right.
‘Unless we’ve really bombed in our direction, I reckon it’s up that way,’ she said.
‘I think so too,’ said Johnny.
He gave her a small smile, much happier now that they were out of the haunted woods and had found the grassland.
‘We’d better keep moving,’ said Becky.
‘Let’s move away from the trees a bit,’ suggested Johnny. ‘I think I’d rather be out in the open.’
‘Me too,’ said Becky.
They had seen no flitting fleeting figures, but at least if she and Johnny were out in the open, whoever or whatever may have been pursuing them could not get close without revealing who they were.
It was a small comfort, but it was a comfort nonetheless.
After walking for nearly half an hour, they had reached the broader plain at the end of the valley and turned right. They had seen no sign of the smoke, although they constantly scanned the trees ahead and to their right. Becky, knowing how deceptive distances could be when estimated from a height, was not too concerned, but Johnny was becoming more and more worried.
‘Do you think we should have gone left?’ he asked.
‘Be patient,’ Becky said. And later when Johnny again became a little fretful, she said, ‘Trust me.’
Johnny tried hard, but was on the verge of voicing his misgivings a little more strongly and insisting they turn back the other way when Becky grabbed his arm, and pointed. They had just rounded a bend in order to follow the line of trees, and there before them was a thin column of pale blue smoke. It was possibly still a kilometre away, but there was now no doubt they had made the right decision.
Another ten minutes or so and they could smell the faint pleasant aroma of wood smoke. It was vaguely familiar and somehow reassuring. All the same, Becky remembering her promise to herself back in the grassy glade, paused and whispered to Johnny. ‘Let’s get closer to the trees. I think we need to see who or what it is before they see us.’
‘Good idea,’ Johnny said softly, and they moved to one side together, and then walked along the edge of the trees. As if by some unspoken agreement, neither of them spoke at this point and they walked in single file, Becky in the lead.
It was almost an anti-climax when they came upon the little stone cottage. It looked so ordinary.
But then, as they got closer, they realised that it was not ordinary. Not ordinary at all.
For a start it looked unaccountably old. Its white peeling plastered walls rose from the grass as if they had always been there. Here and there, whitewash and plaster had fallen away revealing the stone beneath. The slate roof sagged and bent. None of the windows was symmetrical or square, which gave the cottage the air of having been drawn by a small child without the aid of a ruler.
‘Does anybody live there?’ asked Johnny surprised.
‘Well somebody’s lit a fire, so I guess the answer is yes,’ whispered Becky.
The smoke that had drawn them to the cottage was rising from an outside chimney.
‘What should we do? Knock on the door or what?’
Becky looked about. The cottage was still some distance away and, apart from the smoke, appeared deserted. It seemed silly to hesitate when they had been so determined to reach the source of the smoke, but something gave her pause, probably her promise not to be as impulsive as she had been earlier with the basket of berries. She was aware, suddenly, that she was clutching her flute case to her chest and wondered momentarily whether she was trying to protect it, or whether she was hoping it would protect her.
Johnny Cadman was waiting. ‘Well?’ he asked.
Becky shrugged. ‘Let’s not rush things,’ she whispered. ‘I’d like to know a bit more before we barge into something that could be worse.’
Johnny gave her a curious look. ‘What could be worse?’ he asked. ‘I mean here we are lost in some place that just seems to have arrived from nowhere, with no way of getting back to anywhere normal and no way of finding shelter.’ And then he added, ‘And it’s getting darker, or hadn’t you noticed?’
Johnny was right of course, but still Becky hesitated. She suddenly realised what was holding her back. It was the memory of those creepy nursery stories she’d been read to as a kid. Back in the glade, the basket of goodies was just like Little Red Riding Hood; now in the growing gloom this cottage was pure Hansel and Gretel, and the cottage in the woods in Hansel and Gretel was inhabited by a witch, a witch with a large oven.
‘Do you think that house is made of gingerbread?’ she asked.
Johnny Cadman did not appear to understand the reference. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘You’re weird. I doubt it. It’s made of stone or something.’
Becky resented being called weird. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘Knock at the door, then! I don’t care. I’ll wait here.’
‘Right,’ said Johnny, immediately cross himself at Becky’s reaction. ‘You wait here then. Do you want me to call you for dinner?’
Then he turned and strode towards the door. However, he hadn’t gone more than a few metres before his courage evaporated and he slowed down considerably. It may have been the fact that the gravel path that now led to the front door was littered with bones. The bones, split and broken, had been dried and whitened by the sun and now in the gathering dusk contrasted starkly against the grey of the stones.
The second thing that stopped Johnny in his stride and caused him to turn and look back to Becky for support, was the noise he could now hear clearly coming from inside the cottage. It seemed to be wild singing above the rasping wheeze of something like a concertina. It was not good singing. It sounded like wild and unrestrained singing, the kind of singing Johnny’s father sometimes let loose while soaping himself in the shower and which reverberated around the bathroom causing Johnny to grin nervously and his mother to frown with distaste.
His resolve now completely lost, Johnny turned and hurried back to Becky.
‘Can you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘That noise? It sounds like singing.’
‘Singing?’
Becky could not hear the noise from where she was, but she was more kindly disposed towards Johnny now that his little flash of independence had fizzled out.
‘Come on!’ Johnny insisted.
‘Okay,’ said Becky. It could do no harm to approach the door. The singing, if it were singing, could be some clue as to the nature of the person or people who lived in the cottage. It actually sounded promising, Becky thought.
Not even the sight of the scattered bones caused Becky to hesitate. Carefully she led the way up the path. Johnny was right. There was some raucous singing coming from inside. It grew louder as they approached and Becky soon became aware that the terrible singing was accompanied by something equally terrible playing on something like an accordion or concertina. At least it couldn’t have been a mouth organ. She glanced at Johnny and couldn’t help but grin. He grinned back.
‘It’s terrible!’ she whispered to Johnny.
He nodded, grinning.
Somehow, the noise relaxed them a little. The words, too, became more distinct:
Bring me flesh and bring me beer
> Bitter brown and froth and foam
Suckling roast and mugs of cheer
These words were accompanied by the wheezing, protesting instrument, which alternately sobbed or wailed. The voice was loud and while it often tried to hit the correct note it was rarely successful and usually yodelled on either side. The singer tried to make up for this failure of pitch by increasing the volume, especially on the higher notes which emerged as a painful screech.
Duckling legs and tanks for
Tanks for tanks for thanks for
Tanks of bitter
Nothing better
Tanks of yeasty bitter beer!
‘It’s even worse than Dad,’ said Johnny, astonished that such a thing could be possible.
Becky glanced at him curiously. At once she realised she knew next to nothing about Johnny Cadman. She’d considered him a pathetic nobody and a nuisance and then used him quite calculatingly in order to get out of the house. Johnny was in her core classes, but she had hardly ever heard him say anything or do anything to draw attention to himself. She had not wanted him to develop a crush on her. She did not know where he lived, where he came from and the fact that he had just mentioned his dad reminded her for the first time that he actually had a family.
Their being thrown into this nightmare together had changed things. Johnny was not so pathetic. She sensed his fear, even terror at times, but he had gritted his teeth and bitten his lip and tried to overcome it. Becky realised that she was grateful that Johnny was with her, and felt a little bad about her previous judgement. As irritating as he often was, she would not like to have been in this situation by herself, not at all.
‘So your dad can’t sing?’ she asked.
‘He thinks he can,’ said Johnny. ‘But he’s wrong, wrong, wrong.’
‘So is this guy,’ said Becky. ‘And, actually, I think he’s drunk, drunk, drunk.’
‘He sounds a happy enough drunk,’ whispered Johnny. ‘Should we …?’
‘I guess so,’ said Becky. ‘It might shut him up, anyway.’
The Enchanted Flute Page 7