by James Erith
ISABELLA GETS TRAPPED
For every step Isabella took forward, she seemed to slide back two more. And when she was out in the open she found herself pushing blindly through sheets of water with no idea where she was heading.
She needed guidance and wondered if she could find the strange sensation in her hands that she’d felt when guiding them to the bridge. She extended her hands in front of her and felt a gentle pull, one way and then the other. With each step, her feet touched on harder ground. Sometimes her hands swung her at right angles and every so often she had to backtrack. But she trusted in it, for it was the only thing she had.
The one thing that terrified her was the thunderbolts.
Daisy had been able to hear them forming – or so she said – and it was true. Every time Daisy screamed and they ran, a thunderbolt crashed onto the spot where they had just been. But now there was no Daisy, and Isabella sensed that it was only a matter of time before another would come. And she had a deathly feeling in her gut that it would come directly at her out of the blue.
She moved forward, all the while waiting for the crack or the blast. And, as fast as she went, the trickle of water around her ankles kept gaining on her, so that for every surge she made forward out of the water, in no time it had caught up with her, sometimes as high as her knees. She hurried on.
Isabella had a sense of a thunderbolt generating in the clouds above. She didn’t know why, it was simply a terrible, stomach-wrenching fear that filled her.
She crawled fast, scampering over fallen branches and through brambles up to the base of a large tree that offered her decent protection from the rain. Almost immediately Isabella stretched her hands into the air above her head, her palms facing outwards, her fingers touching. She channelled every ounce of energy into protecting herself. She didn’t know why, but it felt as if her hands were her only hope.
She closed her eyes and waited and waited. Sure enough, and only moments before Isabella was thinking of putting them down, a thunderbolt sliced out of the sky directly upon her. A fraction of a second after she heard it break, Isabella slammed back at it.
She could feel its power pushing her into the ground as the immense voltage made to slam into her head. She gritted her teeth and pushed out harder, her hands red hot as if burning rods of molten iron were being welded into them.
And then it was over.
Isabella’s body slumped to the ground, her hands smoking, her eyes closed, a look of peace fixed on her face.
IT WAS the water licking at her lips that brought her back.
Isabella opened her eyes and shivered. The thunderbolt! She’d survived! How long had she been out, five minutes – half an hour? She pulled her hands up to her eyes. Even in the dim light she could make out large black circles, like burn marks, on her palms. Her body tingled, the electrical charge still running through her. How – how had she done it? It didn’t make any sense. By rights, she should be frazzled.
She checked her limbs one by one. They worked, but her whole body ached like crazy and her head felt as if it was full of wire wool.
‘Keep going,’ she heard. ‘Move, now.’
It was as if someone was with her, egging her on, trying to lift her. Was this her spirit, begging her not to give in?
She forced herself forward and fell flat on her face. Again she heard the voice. She picked herself up and wondered who or what it could be. She crawled on, finding a steady rhythm that made her progress faster than before. Soon she was above the waterline and she kept on going until she cracked her head on a large black rock.
‘OW!’ she cried, as she rubbed her head. She noted that the rain had ceased pummelling her. It was a sheltered spot under a rock shelf and, for the first time in ages, she felt a little safer. She sat back, stretched out her legs and cradled her head in her hands. Where would the next meal come from, she wondered – that’s if she remained alive long enough. She was lonely, terrified, lost and starving.
Isabella pulled herself together and tried to take some bearings. She was pretty sure she was on the cottage side of the river but she could be anywhere – who could tell how far she’d drifted – and the hills carried on for miles and miles. She picked up a rock. At the very least she could narrow it down by working out where rocks like these came from.
Moments later there was a terrible explosion of noise, like the sound of a train smashing and crunching into another right above her. The sound got closer and closer until it was right next to her and all around her. She shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears.
Out of the sky, a deadly surge washed over the rock. Isabella shook. She didn’t have the strength to put her hands up to protect herself, but if she had, it would have been useless. Through the veil of water something else was pouring out of the sky – darker, and deadlier – directly onto the area from where she had crawled.
It took a while for Isabella to work it out. It was a landslide. Even above the noise of the water she could hear cracking and crushing and splintering sounds as everything in its path was obliterated.
For several seconds the cascade rattled on. Isabella’s heart thumped; she wouldn’t have stood a chance. Eventually, the cacophony ceased. She ventured out into the rain and, only a couple of metres from where she had been sheltering, she encountered a vast pile of boulders, rock, mud and splintered wood.
She slunk back to her sheltered position as a terrible thought began to wash over her.
If she was underneath a cliff face the chances were that it was either a landslip off the top of a hill or, and she thought this more likely, a section of the cliff face had simply fallen away. That would explain the boulders. The only place she knew where that had happened before was below the ruin.
In her mind, she pictured the geography of the area and the position of the cliff face. She knew from several attempts to climb it that surrounding her probable position was a ledge and, above this, a sheer wall of pure rock.
And then, like a thought one doesn’t want to think about but cannot avoid, she realised that she was completely and utterly trapped.
THIRTY-ONE
GUS’ CANOPY
Gus was sure he’d seen Kemp, and that he looked nothing less than terrified. And who was that odd chap he was with? Oh well, what the hell. Whatever he was up to, Kemp was probably best left to his own devices. Right now he had more pressing things to be getting on with.
He hurried after Sue, his arms nearly dropping off with the weight of the shopping bags. It had been so embarrassing. In the shop he’d rushed round and shovelled everything he could find – pretty much the entire contents of two shelves – into three carrier bags, much to the shopkeeper’s increasing curiosity. Sue was the other side doing the same, before running up to the counter and literally throwing money at the shopkeeper. The notes fluttered in the air and the coins sprayed like confetti all over the counter. She spun on her heel and fled out of the door with Gus right behind her.
‘Stop! Thieves!’ the shopkeeper yelled out, but even though Gus turned round and shrugged his shoulders as a sort of apology, he’d run away as fast as his legs could carry him, down the hill. And when he took a little breather, that’s where he’d seen Kemp.
The boathouse was clad in old weatherboard wooden planks with big, square, open windows at either end. Gus thought it looked like a mini wooden barn. On the river side, the shed had a section removed with just enough room for a boat to be pulled in and out.
Sue was trembling so much she couldn’t lift the plant pot under which the key sat and eventually Gus put his bags down and calmly did it for her. The key was old and rusty and got stuck in the lock, turning only fractionally. He forced it first one way and then the other, loosening it gradually until it clicked and fell around. If that was the condition of the lock, he thought, then what sort of condition will the boat be in?
The door whined as it opened, as another crash of thunder and lightning crackled in the sky overhead. Gus shivered and brushed a few old co
bwebs out of the way.
‘When was the last time this was used?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ Sue replied, searching for a light. She pushed the switch and a solitary dangling light bulb flickered into life.
In the middle, and covered by a large tarpaulin, was the boat, which sat on two large pieces of wood on the dry ground. It was a rowing boat with three bench seats and Gus reckoned it was probably twelve feet in length and four feet wide. He laughed. ‘And this piece of junk is going to save us? It should be in a museum!’
He dragged off the tarp and shook it. Dust flew everywhere. ‘Help me fold this up and stow it,’ he said. They opened it to find that it appeared to be twice the size of the boat. They folded it quickly and nestled it inside the boat. Gus whistled as he inspected the vessel. Layers of varnish had peeled off and the wood was covered in a thick layer of dust. He wondered how much weight it would take.
‘We need to build a canopy,’ Sue said.
‘Why?’ Gus quizzed.
‘So the boat doesn’t fill with rainwater and we don’t spend the entire time bailing it out, that’s why.’
Gus pulled the oars off the wall and nestled them in the rowlocks before searching the boathouse for wood. He found a few decent lengths of 2 inch by 4 inch cut timber.
‘How long did you say we would be stuck in this?’
Sue shrugged. ‘How should I know? A day, a week—’
‘A week?’
‘Maybe a month?’
‘Jeez. A month.’ For the first time, Gus was taking their situation seriously and he sprang into overdrive. He ran round the room finding things that might be useful and tossed them into the boat; rope, bits of wood, a couple of buckets, a crabbing line and a fishing net. He found a handy looking wooden box and a plastic container with a sealed lid. He told Sue to give it a quick clean before putting in the matches and anything else that needed to be kept dry.
Then he had a thought. How would they anchor down the canopy? And what would they sleep on? And what would they drink? He yelled over to Sue who was still busy cramming the tarpaulin under a seat. ‘Really, a month! You think so?’
A huge crack of thunder smashed overhead.
She put her hands out. ‘How long is a piece of string?’
Gus spied four fifty-litre plastic containers. He ran over and smelled them. No foul odours. Good. He took two to the tap, rinsed each one out and filled them before heaving them up onto the boat, which creaked ominously under the weight. He hoped the wood was sound.
‘Make room for these,’ he instructed Sue, ‘one at each end.’
Gus tied the two empty ones to either side to act as bumpers or emergency buoys.
With this task complete, Gus stood up. As he did, the rain suddenly started to cascade out of the sky, thumping like a carnival on the tin roof. Within moments water was spilling through the cracks. Gus wished he had a bit more time. He spotted a couple of loose planks on the far wall. He marched over and, without hesitating, began levering the first one off. As it fell to the floor Gus stared in disbelief at the rain. Holy moley, he thought, she really is right. Rain was falling out of the sky like a sheet.
He pulled two more weatherboards away and slipped them into the boat. ‘Hammer and nails,’ he yelled out. ‘Have you seen any?’ He mimed hammering a nail.
Sue pointed in the direction of an old workbench.
It was a long shot but if there were any it might make all the difference. He went through the drawers and cupboards, finding paint and rags and paintbrushes and sandpaper. He dragged out a thick canopy and laid it aside. But there was nothing suitable for attaching it. To the right was another pile of bits and bobs covered in two large, old dust sheets. He picked them up, shook them out and handed them to Sue.
Beneath this was a selection of woodworking tools. Gus thumped the air. What an astonishing stroke of luck. Clearly someone had set out to repair the building and left everything.
Right, Gus thought. I reckon I’ve got approximately fifteen minutes to build a world class, life-saving canopy.
GUS STRETCHED THE CANOPY, which in truth was a thick, heavy-duty plastic sheet, the length of the boat from bow to stern. It fitted perfectly. To make the main beam, he placed a long length of wood under one side and a matching length above it, so that it sandwiched the plastic sheet. He used two 2 inch by 4 inch sections, about four feet long, to connect to the main beam – one at each end. Then he nailed in two more sections at each end from the side rim of the boat to the main post, which levered the canopy up to form a tent shape.
It was a tad uneven, Gus thought, but it would do. He listened to the downpour. It needed to be super strong. He’d take more wood and prop up the mid section if he had time later, once they were underway.
Next, he nailed two rough planks on both the port and starboard sides, leaving a gap in the middle for the oars. As fast as he could, he nailed a baton to the side of the canopy on the outside of the boat. He repeated this on the other side so that, in no time, the boat was covered in a tight tent and better still – if it worked – water would run off the canopy and out of the boat, not into it.
Sue looked on in awe. Gus didn’t come across as the brightest spark in school, but my goodness he was practical. He was a credit to the woodwork department. She ran round pulling bits of the canopy tight while Gus hammered and sawed and stretched the plastic sheeting. So immersed in their project were they, that they hardly noticed the water seeping in and over the floor.
‘Almost time to batten down the hatches,’ Gus cried, smiling.
Sue ran up and hugged him. ‘I couldn’t have done this without you,’ she said, and she genuinely meant it. Sue climbed into the boat and sat under the canopy as a deep sense of foreboding filled her. She desperately hoped she was doing the right thing. And she hoped like anything that Isabella and the twins had got away safely.
Gus slipped a few remaining planks into the boat and a couple more of the 2 inch by 4 inch sections, grabbed the remaining nails, the hammer, a saw, a small axe and a chisel and threw them in the box. Just before the water covered the whole floor, he scanned the shed looking for anything else; Sue’s umbrella for starters, a couple of old empty paint pots with lids. More rope, string, a whole reel of strimmer cord, another large dust sheet, this one neatly folded. He rummaged through the cupboards like a man possessed and found an untouched bag of barbecue briquettes. He threw them in. When they landed, they’d need fire.
Sue packed them away. Then with a few last minute alterations as the water reached the upper limits of his boots he clambered in, praying like mad there were no holes in the boat. And he prayed that with their weight and the fresh water and the timber, they wouldn’t drop through the bottom.
Slowly the boat rose with the rising water level. It creaked, but so far so good. No holes nor rotten timbers – as far as he could tell. Sue shook as thunder and lightning blazed outside. It felt as if they were waiting in the depths of the Coliseum before being fed to the lions in front of an angry, screaming crowd. The boat rose further still before finding its buoyancy. Then it started to drift.
‘Here we go,’ Gus yelled. ‘Hold on tight.’
But, a moment later, the boat clunked into something. Gus looked confused and squeezed past Sue to the bow. He looked out and muttered something under his breath.
‘What is it?’ Sue cried. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Technical difficulty,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘Pass me the axe.’
Sue scrabbled around in the box and handed it over.
Gus disappeared and set about trying to smash the weatherboards. A short while later and Gus’ banging stopped. ‘It appears,’ said Gus, popping his head back under the canopy, ‘that the water has risen higher than the gap the boat was meant to squeeze out of. In short, we’re stuck!’ and he smiled his toothy grin again.
‘For crying out loud,’ Sue howled. ‘Can’t you get the boards off?’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing? K
nitting?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘So how are we going to get out?’
‘There’s a window directly above, so panic ye not. I’ve got an idea,’ he said. ‘Pass me the saw, and move to the other end – please.’
Gus took the saw and stood on the seat right at the prow of the boat. He began sawing as fast as he could through the timbers surrounding the window, the boat sloshing from side to side.
After several minutes of sawing and whacking, Gus put his drenched head back under the canopy. ‘Don’t think that’s going to work, either.’ He smiled again. ‘Rain’s quite warm, so that’s cool.’
Sue looked appalled. ‘What are we going to do?’
Gus stretched out his legs, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘We wait.’
‘Wait!’ Sue roared. ‘You must be joking. We’ll drown if we stay in here. Can’t you see that?’
Gus ignored her and smiled toothily again. It seemed to act as an anger-deflecting shield. ‘You know what we haven’t done?’ he said, his large eyes sparkling.
‘What?’ Sue snapped.
‘Named our vessel.’
Sue eyed him warily. ‘Seriously, Gus, before we start thinking up names, do you actually think we’ll get out of here?’
Gus raised his eyebrows and nodded.
‘How?’ Sue said, raising her eyebrows back at him. Getting a straight answer out of Gus was proving to be a bit of a nightmare.
Gus pointed upwards.
‘God?’ she yelled, sarcastically.
Gus laughed and his whole body galloped up and down. He moved close to her so they could hear each other without yelling. ‘No, you banana-cake; through the roof. So long as the water continues to rise,’ he peered out of the end of the boat, ‘and it is, just as you said it would, then we go up.’
Sue grimaced. ‘Really? You sure it’ll work?’
‘Oh yeah. Far easier this way. There’s corrugated iron sheeting up there, they’ll lift off and then, whoosh – away we go.’