The Monster Hunter

by Kit Cox

  On reaching the flat undergrowth-covered top he could hear the laughter of the small group and was suddenly aware how silly it would look him bursting in on them, especially if they weren’t doing anything wrong or dangerous. He wasn’t going to miss this opportunity, however, and crept up to see what they were doing.

  The little group of four were sitting around what looked like an old fire pit, a round depression in the ground full of loose gravel. Abigail was reaching into a bag and pulled forth a clay bottle.

  ‘Ginger beer!’ she announced excitedly, handing it to Christian, and then she went back to the bag and pulled forth a selection of green apples.

  ‘Apples.’

  ‘Where did these come from?’ said Christian confused as he uncorked the bottle and smelt the fizzy ginger scent.

  ‘Nanny Belle – she’s packed a proper little feast for us. She gave it to me this morning before we left.’

  Ben smiled to himself in his hiding-place in the bushes. It seemed that the new teacher was of the same mind regarding poisoning and was going to make sure that the group had enough food to stop them resorting to any wild berries as a picnic. Well, it seemed that this mystery was wrapped up: the group had come up here to a secret spot and eaten some berries from one of the many bushes on the island and fallen ill but now their secret space was safe as Nanny Belle had given them treats, Miss Belle as ever one step ahead. Ben felt silly but was glad he was on hand if there had been any fresh trouble. He turned away, ready to make a stealthy departure.

  ‘HERE IT COMES!’

  The excited shout of the gathered group made Ben turn again. They were all staring at the gravel-filled depression before them. Something was moving.

  Ben watched transfixed as a creature he had never seen before burrowed up from among the small loose stones.

  It was about the size of a pit-bull terrier and straight away Ben could see that its origins lay in the sea; he might even have compared it to a soft-shelled lobster. It had a pale-beige segmented body and eyes on the end of stalks that moved around in a bizarre, alien fashion. Its multiple legs were somehow similar to those of the crustacean it resembled, but they had bulked out, making them less insect-like and more like the limbs of a hedgehog or other small mammal. The big claws of a lobster had been replaced by shovel like limbs that it clearly used to dig through the earth like a mole and its body had a light downy fur all over.

  The gathered children were over the moon and Christian clapped his hands together after putting down the bottle of ginger beer. The loud noise of the clapping seemed to startle the creature that they had been so pleased to see and it inflated like a puffer fish. The gravel around it moved as if caught on the tide and as quickly as it had inflated it deflated but from its body there came a cloud of smoke or steam that quickly covered the children. One by one they collapsed and fainted dead away. Ben slapped a hand over his own mouth, worried that the smoke would reach him and as he sat rooted to the spot he watched the strange creature dig itself back into the gravel like a fish diving back beneath the waves.

  The children started to twitch like dreaming dogs. Ben moved forward, his hand still over his mouth.

  He bent down next to Thomas and removed his hat. The boy was breathing normally but his facial muscles were twitching alarmingly.

  ‘Thomas!’ said Ben with enough volume to wake the boy.

  However, he stirred something else, for the gravel pit exploded upwards and the creature came hurtling towards Ben, growing in size as it came. Ben did not wait for the creature to belch its smoke – he simply ran. He was sure that it must have followed him all the way to the edge of the island but he was already clambering down the chalk sides like Jack fleeing the giant down the beanstalk. The more he ran, the more scared he became. The creature wasn’t known or catalogued, that he was sure of; it wasn’t in any books he had read and he had read a lot. He burst from the quarry and hurdled the fence, all intentions to head towards the orphanage as quickly as he could – but as he rounded a corner he crashed straight into Nanny Belle out for a countryside walk with Mr Reed at her side.

  She held him gently by the shoulders, trying to calm him.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Ben?’ she seemed to be saying it as much to his face as she was glancing over his shoulder expecting a pursuer to follow any second.

  Mr Reed asked a more practical question. ‘Why aren’t you at the oyster factory?’

  Ben was so full of fear that all these questions were simply too much for him. He shook himself free and ran off in the opposite direction as Miss Belle and Mr Reed called after him.

  He couldn’t say how far he had run but soon running didn’t seem the safest option so on finding a fallen tree he hid in the hollow left by its roots and pulled his legs up close to his face, eyes searching every movement.

  Rosalie

  Must of scared you something fierce.’

  Ben jumped at the voice and realised he must have fallen asleep. He was still curled up at the base of the tree but his legs ached as if they had been held tightly for a long time in one position. The sun was low in the sky, shining beneath the canopy of the woods in which he found himself, meaning that most of the day had now passed.

  The voice came from the girl of about his age, maybe older, who was crouched in front of him.

  ‘I saw you come running up here just before noon. You were like a hare with the hounds after him. Athletic, too – you jumped most of the fallens like a deer. I was very impressed. Didn’t expect to find you still here, though, after a day.’ Her voice was as kind as her eyes and she had an accent not unlike the one he knew was hiding behind Mrs Reed’s adopted Kentish.

  ‘My name’s Rosalie; what’s yours?’ She held out a hand.

  The girl’s skin was tan but Ben wasn’t sure whether that was from heritage or grime as she certainly had fresh dirt on her hands and cheek. Her hair was long and matted but still seemed to shine with a wonderful chestnut colour despite all the bits of twig that were caught up in it. Her clothes were of vibrant colours, and had been patched and sewn many times. He wasn’t sure whether they had been altered to match the girl as she had grown or taken down from a larger size to fit. He realised that he had examined her longer than was polite when she nodded her head towards her outstretched hand as if she wasn’t going to remove it until it was shaken.

  Ben leant forward and took her hand in his and pumped it twice as he had been shown by the British officers. ‘My name’s Ben Gaul,’ he said, surprising himself at how informal his introductions were becoming.

  ‘Ah! Like the tiger. That explains the jumping! So you were after something rather than running away – did you feast well, Tiger, or are you going to eat me?’ Rosalie said with mock terror.

  Ben just looked confused as if he hadn’t got the reference and Rosalie looked exasperated. It seemed she had discovered a simpleton hiding in the woods.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Ben. ‘I don’t follow your meaning.’

  ‘Bengal! Like the tiger,’ she said, again a smile following her words.

  ‘Oh!’ said Ben, suddenly feeling like a fool.

  ‘Don’t fret yourself, Tiger. I’m assuming that, if your prey got away and you’ve been waiting here all day, then you haven’t eaten. Luckily for you I managed to catch enough for everyone.’ And the girl held up a brace of four plump rabbits all tied neatly by their hind legs.

  Ben felt comfortable in Rosalie’s company and was happy to follow her as she led him through the woods. He after all had no idea where he had fled to in his panic and anyone that knew where they were going was a plus.

  ‘So are you lost, Tiger, or have you escaped from the zoo?’ Rosalie span around to face Ben, her eyes suddenly full of excitement ‘Or, better yet, did you escape from the circus…? Oh how I love the circus. They’re Travellers, you know, like us.’

  ‘I’m not escaped from the circus,’ said Ben, more worried about the girl’s sanity now and if she truly believed him to be a tiger lost in the
woods of Kent. ‘And I’m not a traveller either, so there’s no us.’

  Rosalie laughed a beautiful uninhibited peal of laughter. ‘I didn’t mean us travellers as in you and me, silly. I meant us Travellers –’ At that moment they reached a crest in the woods and with a sweep of her hand she indicated the gathered caravans below. Ben was awestruck.

  There were seven beautifully constructed and painted wooden caravans in the clearing below them and lines of colourful clothes drying between them like bunting. A fire was built up in the middle of the clearing and people moved about it casting their silhouetted forms across the dancing flames.

  Before Ben could take in any more of the spectacle from up high they descended the bank into the Gypsy encampment itself, pushing their way past the hung-out washing as if they were opening up a curtain on a wonderful play. It all seemed like another land to Ben, the most brightly coloured spectacle he had seen since the streets of Ceylon, Even animals seemed to freely share the space, including several large shire horses, two grumpy-looking pigs and a brindle-coloured dog that had seen better days.

  ‘Welcome home, Rosalie,’ said a warm voice thick with the same accent as the girl’s. Ben turned to see sitting on the steps of one of the caravans a thin handsome man with curly brown hair, in his rolled-up shirt sleeves, striped trousers and big laced-up boots. He had a gold loop earring that could easily have doubled as a bracelet on a small enough wrist, and in his hand was a long-stemmed clay pipe upon which he sucked from time to time from the corner of his mouth until blue smoke filled the air around him. Ben was suddenly reminded of the pirates of Treasure Island.

  ‘I’ve caught a tiger, Uncle David, and a brace of rabbits,’ Rosalie almost sang, spinning on the spot and holding up the rabbits like a true prize and causing her uncle to smile a big happy grin.

  ‘And which is to go into the pot first, girl, the tiger or the rabbits?’

  It was another man’s voice. Concerned, Ben spun round to face him. It belonged to an older man by the fire, his face was thin and heavily lined; his wavy hair had been left to grow long and dark.

  ‘Why, Uncle Ronnie, we are to cook the rabbits for I do not believe Mother knows a recipe for tiger, and even if she did the tiger is my friend and he has claws and sharp teeth.’ And with this, Rosalie theatrically racked the air and gnashed her teeth together.

  ‘And what of you, Tiger, are you to be joining us for rabbit stew, or are you waiting until our bellies are full and we become easy prey as we sleep?’ It was the one called Uncle David who addressed Ben directly.

  ‘I am very hungry,’ said Ben softly, trying to be as polite as he could but not quite understanding the politics or game of the Gypsies.

  ‘Then start with David for I’m as tough as old boots. The ladies must certainly like the taste of our David what with all the time their lips are pressed upon him,’ laughed Uncle Ronnie from beside the fire, and the laughter was echoed by the pipe-smoking David.

  ‘We have a guest then.’ It was a new voice and belonged to a man whose hair, although the dome of his head was bald, grew long and dark, while his mouth was surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard. He emerged from a caravan putting on a bright-yellow waistcoat adorned with sewn-on metal disks. He was tall and walked to Ben before crouching before him so that their eyes were level.

  ‘And who are you?’ the tall Gypsy said slowly, as he was joined by a woman who had also exited from the caravan.

  ‘He is my tiger, Father Mick,’ began Rosalie, but was stilled to silence by the tall Gypsy as he simply raised a hand, his eyes never leaving Ben’s.

  ‘I am Ben Gaul, Sir.’ He had been tempted to say Benjamin Jackson Gaul but he liked the tiger references too much.

  Father Mick pulled a contemplative face as he nodded. ‘You are a respectful young man; I like that in my guests. And where are you from, Ben Gaul?’

  ‘I live at the Garden Orphanage in Whitgate, Sir.’ The name brought a sharp intake of breath from some around the camp but Father Mick again raised his silencing hand.

  ‘Mrs Reed’s place. Well, it would appear that you are to be staying with us tonight then, for I have heard tell that any Gypsies she sees around her premises after dark would have the guns turned on them and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?’

  Laughter rolled around the camp and Ben suddenly felt as though he was in the biggest den of thieves this side of Ali Baba’s cave.

  He cast an eye about, looking to find Rosalie, and there she was smiling back at him and he was also pleased to see several more women had emerged to swell the numbers. Since coming to England, being in the Gypsy encampment was the closest he had felt to belonging.

  Ben sat and happily watched the rabbits prepared for the pot and as each new ingredient was added he found his stomach growling at the feast to come. It was a growl that caused much merriment to Rosalie: ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘my Tiger is growling so we had best get dinner finished quickly or else someone will get eaten!’

  Ben was even happier to see how little of the rabbits were wasted: the skins were expertly removed and cleaned and he could see they were going to be put to good use. The less appealing bits of the animals were thrown to the grumpy pigs that ate quickly and greedily as the terrier eyed them with contempt before placing his shaggy head back on his outstretched paws.

  The whole process from rabbit to pot was a quick one but it was done with skill and very little fuss, as the cooks – two of the yet unnamed women of the camp – chatted happily as they worked.

  Ben was surprised at how quickly the adults left him and Rosalie alone; they all had their own things to be doing and while they accepted the presence of a guest in the camp they didn’t feel they had to entertain him. As women emerged from the surrounding woodland, returning from whatever chores they had been doing, the occasional comment was made to Rosalie and all with a cheeky twinkle to the eye.

  ‘Got yourself a man then, Rosie?’ said a round-faced girl of about eighteen years.

  ‘Strapping lad you’ve got there, girl; he’ll make fine children,’ laughed an older woman with a basket of berries and apples.

  And finally: ‘Picked yourself some man fruit; thought you was out rabbiting.’ This statement came from a returning man whose face was badly scarred and pockmarked from an old burn, making it difficult to judge his age.

  The comments made Ben feel a bit uncomfortable, but Rosalie just took them all in her stride and quipped back whenever she found the right words.

  ‘How old are you?’ Ben asked finally.

  Rosalie grinned and lay back on the ground to look up at the leaves, her hands behind her head. ‘I don’t rightly know. We don’t really go in for birthdays.’ She turned her head to look at Ben. ‘I guess I must be the same age as you. How old would that be?’

  ‘I’m fourteen. Although I just know that to be a fact; I haven’t exactly celebrated the last few.’ He thought for a moment. ‘In fact, my last birthday passed so quietly even I didn’t notice it.’

  ‘Best way to stay young!’ giggled Rosalie, her eyes still fixed on Ben. ‘Don’t remember any more birthdays and you can stay fourteen for ever.’ She sat up and leant close into Ben’s ear and whispered, ‘Of course, when you’re older people think you’re wise and the older you are the wiser you must be.’ Rosalie pointed to a very small old woman sitting near the pigs: she was as wrinkled as a windfall apple and clearly didn’t have a tooth in her head. ‘Gramma Wild tells folks she’s two hundred and ninety-two, so they hang on her every word. Luckily, she doesn’t say much that isn’t about the health of the pigs … but she’s always right.’

  Ben laughed. He liked Rosalie’s closeness; she smelt of grass and wood smoke. He looked at the old lady and was surprised when her tiny eyes focused on him and she nodded with a single but meaningful bow of her head.

  ‘Stew’s ready,’ said a woman at the fire and there was an instant shuffling of the gathered men towards the pot, tin plates in hand. Another lady who had been stone-baking rol
ls handed the hard-looking rounds of bread to all who came close. Ben didn’t know the politeness of the queuing system so looked at Rosalie for help. The girl didn’t even look back – she was too busy licking her lips – but she somehow got the message.

  ‘Someone will take a bowl to Gramma Wild, then the men will help themselves followed by the women and finally the children,’ she said quietly as Ben looked curiously about the camp. ‘Technically, I’m the only child as I’m not a woman yet but tonight there are two of us. We don’t go in for the whole guests-go-first thing, unless Father Mick invited you himself. Some nights there’s not enough to go around, but you always get a cob.’

  ‘A cob?’ questioned Ben.

  ‘One of the bread rolls. Don’t worry, though, I know I caught enough rabbits for all, or else I wouldn’t have invited you back.’ She smiled and handed Ben a tin plate. ‘Crowd’s thinning; best get up there before Uncle Ronnie thinks there’s enough for a second helping.’

  The stew was lovely and rich with thick gravy all of its own, which made it stick to your stomach nicely and gave you the contented, warm feeling of being satisfied and full. The cob was hard but it soaked up what was left of the gravy nicely. Ben felt relaxed and in good company, and his mind finally turned back to the children in the quarry; he had just left them and then Nanny Belle and Mr Reed had seen him running. It was most certainly dark now and Ben doubted he could have found his own way back in the light, let alone in the pitch dark. Knowing now what might be lurking in the gloom he didn’t want to try either.