The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  They're all listening now. Seems like the whole pub's gone quiet.

  ‘I can hear the giant snoring – the hill's rumbling with it. And I can see bones scattered about in front of his lair. But I won't turn back now. I've come this far and there's no turning back. So I set to, digging a pit.’

  I can see their faces, raw and red or sallow in the light from the lamps, eyes glittering through the smoke. I can see the pub and everything around me, but more than that I can see the quaking hillside and the deep yawning cavern. I can feel how hard it is, digging that pit, and I go through the motions of showing them the clunk as the shovel hits hard earth, the strain in my shoulders and back.

  ‘I dig all night long,’ I tell them. ‘And I drag sticks and branches across the hole, and wet clods of earth, till I make it look like solid ground. And then, just as day's dawning, I put the horn to my lips and blow the loudest blast I can manage, once, twice, thrice. And the giant wakes up.’

  You could hear a pin drop in the pub.

  ‘There's a horrible roaring and snorting as he comes to,’ I tell them. ‘And the blast of a giant cough, so loud that I'm flung to the earth,’ and I fling myself down on the table. ‘Giant comes out with his great thudding footsteps, rubbing his eyes, but he can't see a thing.

  ‘“Fee fi fo fum,” says he. “I smell the blood of an Englishman!”’

  There's scattered clapping and cheering at this, but I carry on.

  ‘“Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!” And he stomps out further. “Where are you?” he roars. “Come out – I'm hungry for my breakfast.” And he steps forward, and forward again, and suddenly – CRASH!’

  Everyone jumps, and I leap off the table. ‘He thunders down into the pit – BANG! KERBOOM! Everything goes deadly quiet. Then I can hear him groaning from the bottom, and I go right up to the edge.

  ‘“You see, Mr Giant,” I say. “Sometimes it's a bad thing to be in too much of a hurry for breakfast.”’

  There's laughter and clapping as I climb back on to the table.

  ‘“Kind sir,” says he, very respectful, “I'd be grateful if you'd lend me a hand, for I seem to have fell into a hole.”

  ‘“O, I'll lend you a hand all right,” says I. “Just clamber up the side a little way.” And he starts climbing out and VUMMM! SPLAT! I bring the pickaxe down on his head, splitting it wide open and leave it there, buried to the hilt. And the giant's eyes roll right back in his head and he falls – PHEEEEEW, THUD, THUD, BANG! like an earthquake, so I'm flung to the floor, but he's dead. Dead as a doornail!’

  I finish my tale, grinning broadly round. There's a second's silence then a burst of applause. People are drumming their jugs on the tables. I can hardly believe it. Seems like I could go on standing there forever with the applause like a fire in my chest and belly. I bow low as I can, in one direction then another, and there's a chorus of voices asking for more, but just as I'm rising from a third bow, one voice sounds above all the others.

  ‘That were a fine tale young'un,’ it says. ‘But I've a tale worth two of that.’

  And I look up, and up, and through the smoke looms the one face I hoped I'd never see. Long and bald, with but three teeth in its head, and a grubby bandage round the crown where I hit it.

  ‘I'm glad I've run into you,’ says Old Bert.

  9

  Wagon

  Old Bert lunges towards me but, quick as wink, I dive off the table and start scrambling on my hands and knees among chair legs and big mud-stained boots. The next few minutes there's a right row. There's shouts of ‘Catch him!’ and ‘There he is!’; people flinging their chairs back, pewter jugs tumbling to the floor. When one table's overturned I dive under another.

  ‘Eh! Mind me pots!’ shouts the landlord – but too late, as they all crash to the floor. My heart's in my mouth and I don't even know where I'm going. I can't see the door, just a lot of kicking, shuffling feet.

  Bent-nose's voice rises above the others. ‘What's the lad done to you?’

  ‘He's a thief!’ growls Old Bert and the cry's taken up, ‘Stop, thief!' but in the darkness and confusion no one can see. Someone knocks ale out of someone else's hand and in no time there's a fight brewing. Hands grasp at me but I shake them off. All I can think is, I'm not going back, I'm not going back! and the thought hammers with the blood in my head.

  Finally I see the door. I head towards it on my hands and knees but someone grasps me by the collar and hauls me up, kicking. My hands grab a tankard of ale and I dash it upwards into the man's face and he lets go, bellowing a curse. Then I'm running for the door but there's a pot-boy and a scullery maid in my way, looking scunnered at all the noise. I point behind them and yell, ‘There he is!’ and when they turn I dive at the door and I'm out of it and into the yard, with half the pub following.

  I've never run so hard, not even when we ran from Bent Edge Farm. I turn round long enough to shove a pile of barrels over in the path of the landlord and Old Bert. It holds them up but it doesn't stop them. My feet are flying faster, faster, over the cobbles of the yard towards the outhouse where I left Annie. I can see her standing in front of it, white-faced at all the row.

  ‘Run, Annie!’ I yell, and without waiting she turns and runs behind the outhouse and through the gate to where the horses are tethered. I dash round with her and suddenly I'm caught, hoisted upwards, yelling and kicking.

  ‘Hold your noise,’ says Bent-nose, lifting the cover of his wagon and thrusting me in. ‘Two of you!’ he says, thrusting Annie in besides. He barely has time to pull the cover over before there's the thudding steps of the men from the pub.

  ‘Have you seen them?’ says one and, ‘Where did they go?’ says another.

  ‘Straight on, that way,’ Bent-nose says, calmly unhitching his horse. Then again, ‘They went that way – you can't miss 'em,’ and when someone else comes running up, ‘By ‘eck, Seth – your pub's a bit rowdy for me. I'll be on my way.’

  ‘He's smashed all my pots!’ the landlord complains and Bent-nose sighs sympathetically, climbing into his seat. ‘You can't be too careful these days,’ he says.

  ‘I knew he was trouble – soon as I laid eyes on him,’ says the landlord. ‘I'll skin him alive when I catch him! Did you see where he went?’

  ‘Down by the byre,’ says Bent-nose. ‘There's a great crowd chasing him – you can be sure he'll be caught. Well, I'm on my way. I'll be seeing you.’ And he flicks the horse's reins and we set off, jigging and rolling down the hill.

  All this time I've laid low, trying not to breathe too loud. Annie's lying next to me, clenched like a knot. The cart's full of a jumble of things – hard wooden stuff and one or two great wheels that slide about as we get going. We grip on to the sides and say nowt.

  The cart rattles and jolts and soon picks up speed. Slowly I loosen my grip and shift round to sit with my back against the side. I can't help laughing to myself as we pull away from the pub. All those men chasing after, and me in this cart all the time! Seems like luck's on the side of the brave. Then I stop laughing, for I'm still hungry and I didn't get fed.

  In the front of the wagon Bent-nose is starting to sing.

  ‘Oh, threedy-wheel, threedy wheel,

  Dan dol din doe…’

  And Annie's uncurling now, and tugging my arm. She jerks her head towards the front of the wagon, meaning, Who's he?

  ‘I don't know,’ I whisper. ‘He's from the pub.’

  She's not happy but I don't want her carrying on, so I tell her about my amazing deeds.

  ‘I had all the pub hanging on to my every word,’ I tell her. ‘You should've seen me. It were great.’

  Annie's not even listening. She makes signs like she wants to get out of the wagon.

  ‘Don't talk daft,’ I tell her. Then I lift the edge of the cover and peer out. All I can see is white rolling hills and a pale moon, out with the sun. Far off there's smoke from two or three cottages. Annie thrusts her head out next to mine.

>   ‘I'd keep hidden if I were you,’ Bent-nose says, breaking off his song. ‘Turnpike's coming up.’

  We duck down again, but in the darkness Annie pinches me.

  ‘Ow!’ I say and, ‘What?’

  She doesn't answer. She's skittering about a bit, afraid, and rolling with the motion of the cart. I grab hold of her and wedge her between a wheel and a bracket. Her teeth are chattering.

  ‘Don't be feared,’ I tell her. ‘We're safe now.’ Then, ‘Sssh,’ for the cart's pulling up. We hear Bent-nose exchange a few words with the man at the turnpike.

  ‘To market,’ he says and, ‘Fixing wheels.’

  The turnpike man lets us through. I can hear the drag of the gate, and I start to breathe again. Some time later I poke my head out of the wagon again.

  It's a rutted road, neither straight nor crooked and the wagon's making slow progress. On either side there's a bank: bare hedges just putting out leaves. Beyond that there's fields bordered by low stone walls, and I can make out painted signs near the gate. I wish again that I'd worked harder at reading.

  ‘Mister,’ I say after a while, ‘what's them signs say?’

  ‘Keep out, mostly,’ Bent-nose says without turning round. ‘Get lost. Be off, and such. Anyone found trespassing will be handed over to the magistrate. Didn't you know that all the leaves and grass in these parts are private property? Some places, trespassing's a hanging offence.’

  I didn't know that and I sit back down feeling worried. Don't want to be hung because I can't read. It's stuffy in the wagon, though, and after a bit I poke my head out again.

  ‘Where are you taking us, mister?’

  ‘Whoa girl, steady,’ says Bent-nose as the cart gives a terrific jolt and I bang my chin on the side. ‘My name's Barney the wainwright,’ he says after a moment. ‘Fixing wheels is my trade. What are your names?’

  ‘Jack,’ I say, remembering in time. ‘And this is my sister –’

  ‘Jill,’ he finishes for me, with a low grunt like a laugh. ‘Well, Jack and Jill, we're approaching the town now, where I'll spend the night, and in the morning I set up stall on the market. Now, I'll be stopping at an inn, but you're welcome to sleep in the cart, unless you've anywhere else in mind.’

  I haven't of course, so I say nothing to this, but Barney seems to feel like talking. ‘Road goes on, all the way to Manchester,’ he says. ‘That where you're going?’

  ‘That's right,’ I tell him, because I can't think of anywhere else.

  ‘Well, I can take you as far as this next town,’ he says. ‘Then we'll part company.’

  He stops talking and starts whistling. I can see now that some of the fields have tumbledown cottages in them, mostly boarded up, some part pulled down. There's a faint echo of a memory in me, of my mother's voice saying, ‘We've lost our home now, but we've got each other,’ and I feel the familiar, bitter pang.

  Still, at least he's taking us where we want to go. And at no cost to us. I can't think why he's doing us such a favour, but I'm not minded to ask. My stomach growls and I wonder if it's too much to hope that he'll feed us.

  I can see more and more houses clustered together, and I feel a knot of excitement. As we get nearer the noise of the town increases. There's bells ringing and people crying through the streets, the sound of carts unloading, children yelling, babies crying – and it's evening! A smoky stench rises.

  ‘You'd best duck down again,’ Barney says. ‘There's a toll booth coming up. I've got to pay yet more money for the pleasure of travelling on the king's highway.’

  I crouch back down in the wagon, pulling the cover across. Just before I do I can see that Annie's eyes are rolled back in her head and she's muttering to herself. I kick her and she stops.

  I mean, what's she griping on about, eh? We've got a lift all the way to town and a place to stay for the night. We've come through river and forest, field and inn, and at any one of them we could have been caught and turned in. But we're still here, thanks to me – free, just like Travis said. What more can she want?

  Then it occurs to me why she's so feared. The houses. Annie's never been anywhere before where the houses press so closely in on every side, where there's so many people and so much noise. She's not used to anything but the workhouse. When I peep out it's strange to me an' all, the gaslights smoking through the gloom, pigs nosing through the muck on the streets, and everywhere the din and clatter of people shutting up shop or calling their children in.

  It's strange to me but I like it, and Annie doesn't.

  Soon after the toll booth we come to the inn. The Coach and Horses – a white building with a gabled end. Barney steers us in through the gate. Light streams from the windows and there's the sound of singing inside. He leads the cart into a covered shelter and pays the ostler to stable the horse. All this time we're lying quiet in the bottom of the cart, but once we're in the shelter he lifts the cover.

  ‘You'll be all right, staying here,’ he says. ‘No one checks the carts. I'll be up, crack of dawn to fetch you out. Here,’ and he passes us a water bottle and some bread. The inside of the bread's been scooped out and there's a big wodge of ham inside.

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ I say with feeling, and tear into it straight away. I don't say, Why are you doing this for us?

  ‘If you want to go,’ he says, ‘Feel free. No one's stopping you. I just thought you'd be better under cover than on the streets.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say again. ‘We'll be fine.’

  He smiles, showing broken yellow teeth with big gaps between. ‘Market tomorrow, eh?’ he says, then he flings us a rug for a blanket and pulls the cover back over the cart.

  ‘Hold on a bit, I'm coming,’ he calls to someone I can't see, then I hear his footsteps fading away.

  All's quiet, or at least as quiet as a town can be, which is to say that there's a low roar of noise that never quite fades. There's dogs barking, the bellowing of oxen, the grunting of pigs, the cries of hawkers and beggars still, and every few minutes the ringing of bells. There's the stench of smoke and rotten vegetables, ale and swill, loud yells and singing from the pub. And a never-ending tramp of footsteps to the inn or past the yard, voices loud as they pass, then fading.

  ‘Bessie's Brew, that were a good horse.’

  ‘So I said to him, I told him straight –’

  ‘She'll not have no more now, not with the littl'un being took poorly.’

  Even under the cover there's a bit of light from the inn. It's a bit cramped in the cart, though, and I want to stretch my legs, but there's nowhere to go. I sigh and shift and wonder if I'll ever get to sleep. Annie's all hunched up and shaking, so I tuck the rug round us both. Then, just as I'm turning over and closing my eyes, she sets up a high mewling wail that near frits me to death.

  ‘Shut your 'ole!’ I gasp, leaping round and shaking her. ‘What's up with you? Do you want to get us caught?’

  I shake her shoulder but she pays me no heed, rocking back and forth.

  ‘Annie, shut it!’ I say, desperate now, and she stops wailing but carries on rocking. I break up her share of the bread, which she hasn't touched, and give it her, but she turns her face away. There's a loud burst of laughter from the pub.

  ‘Annie, it'll be all right,’ I whisper. ‘I'll take care of you.’

  Annie shakes her head.

  ‘I will,’ I insist, and I lift the cover so that I can look at her face. ‘Haven't I always before?’

  Then Annie sits up, bolt upright, eyes staring. Her throat works strangely. And she says, in a husky, hoarse voice that's not her own, ‘Leave.’

  I'm pressed back against the ridge of a wheel, too scared to speak.

  ‘Leave now.’

  ‘Annie –’ I manage to say finally, ‘cut it out,’ and the thing that's in Annie looks at me through her eyes.

  ‘Go,’ it says.

  I've had enough. Ignoring the danger of being seen I scramble to my feet, pushing the cover back completely. I lift a trembling finger and
point at Annie.

  ‘Eh, you in there – whatever you are – get out of my sister. Now. Do you hear? Get out.’

  I don't suppose I'm very frightening, but to my surprise Annie gives a long shudder and her head slumps forward. Neither of us says anything. Then, mindful of being seen, I pull the cover back across and sit down warily. I grab Annie's shoulder. ‘Annie, what's going on?’ I whisper. ‘What happened then?’

  Even in the gloom under the cover of the cart, I can tell that she hasn't a clue.

  I think of questioning her, then think better of it. As for leaving – I'm not going anywhere because some boggart or long dead thing tells us to. That's how Jinny Green-teeth works, luring littl'uns to a watery grave. It's how Owd Nick works too by all accounts. Anyway, where would we go? The only place I want to get to is market, and that's where we're headed tomorrow.

  Feeling a bit stiff and cold, I pull the rug back over us and try to settle down. Annie's already slumped over. I can hear her breathing but I can tell she's not asleep. Maybe she's as bothered as I am by what just happened. More even.

  There's more singing and laughter from the pub, and I can't help but wonder what it'd be like to sleep in a nice comfortable room in that inn. Still, I've slept in worse places. I turn over and shut my eyes. I can hear the whickering of horses and the bleat of a sheep; someone shouting for the barrels to be cleared. I remember Travis, and try to let my head fill with the silence of the moor. Instead I'm thinking, What would he do now?

  Don't know, don't care,

  Make a wish, catch a hare.

  10

  Market

  Well, I must've slept, because I'm waking up. There's a great din and clatter in the yard; someone's tugging back the cover of the cart. I sit up quick, but it's only Barney.

  ‘Why, it's Jack and Jill!’ he booms. ‘Good to see you this fine morning. Are we awake yet?’

  Annie wakes up and scrambles backwards, pressing herself against a wheel. I grab her hand and poke my head out. There's splashes of sunlight in the yard.