by John Mallon
Chapter 3
“Mum leave the lamp on” said Alfie.
“You don’t want to give it a go?” asked his mother as she withdrew her hand from the lamp switch. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
He shook his head.
“Ok. Goodnight then” said his mother as she kissed his cheek, “love you.”
It had been a week since he had seen the tiny people on the washing line and had saved them from the spider. Every day he had carried out a new search for them but they had disappeared completely like that spelling homework given out last Easter. He was certain, though, that they were still in the back garden somewhere, probably in or around the garage. But where exactly? He took his torch from his bedside cabinet and pushed the switch. The tiny bulb projected a bright circle of light on to the ceiling next to the model of the solar system hanging there. He moved the circle of light around the solar system. He had looked for the tiny people everywhere. He had looked in and around the rockery, behind the flower pots, under the bushes and, after borrowing his father’s step ladder, on top of the garage roof. He had failed to discover anything except that step ladders are wobbly and never to be used again. Maybe, they were inside the garage. The garage, unfortunately, was full of clutter: toys, bikes, gardening stuff, black bags, cobwebs and numerous dark corners. It was difficult to move around in it without being poked, snagged or scraped by something. After knocking one of the bags off a shelf, he realised that he had to be careful. He could accidentally crush a tiny person as easily as an ant and not even know it. That was, most definitely, not the kind of contact with them he was looking for. After half an hour of searching he decided that he might have better luck if he came back another time. He would come back and wait quietly like one of those people he had seen on television hiding in a little tent waiting for a badger to trot by. He pressed the switch on his torch again and the circle of light disappeared. He had to go back, he decided, when it was dark and tonight was the night. This would be his last attempt. He flicked the switch on the torch gain and the circle of light reappeared by the door. Standing at the entrance to the garage that morning in the bright sunshine, the idea of going back into it in the middle of the night by himself, without his parents knowing, seemed like a good one. Now he was not so sure.
Braddle stood on the large pile of stones, collected by Uncle Malik and himself from the Building Materials Repository for the construction of the floor in their new home, and turned full circle. In every direction a new city was growing out of the earth made from the materials provided by it; thousands of buildings, large and small, some basic and box-like, some ornate and some magnificent, were under construction; roads, squares and parks were already marked out waiting to be transformed by skilful hands. Next door, on the right, a man was busy directing his three teenage sons in the art of roof construction. There was a girl, about Braddle’s age, standing next to him watching them. She called to her brothers playfully, ‘Be careful, now’, ‘not like that silly’, in imitation of her father. Her black hair was tied back in to a pony tail that reached down her back. It swayed from side to side as she laughed. The plot on the left side was still vacant. Maybe I could build a fort there, thought Braddle.
“Boy. Is your mother at home?” a voice called to him.
Braddle turned around. The question had been asked by a tall, thin man out of a mouth framed by a cone of neatly trimmed blond hair. The armour he wore gleamed hard in the sunlight. Braddle nodded to him.
“Tell her that General Stoo wishes to speak to her” he ordered.
Braddle jumped off the stones and ran in to the house. His mother was nailing a plank of wood to the back wall. Another plank lay at the feet of his uncle as he wrapped a piece of cloth round his thumb.
“I’ll have to make sure that I hit the right nail next time” he said to Braddle, laughing.
Braddle laughed too.
“Mother, General Stoo is outside. He wants to talk to you.”
His mother gave the nail she was hitting one last, hard whack and turned to her uncle. They looked at each other but did not speak. She placed the hammer on the floor.
“Ask him to come in Braddle. You go and explore but don’t be long and don’t go far. It will be dark soon.”
He placed his dagger in his belt and went back outside.
“My mother says go in.”
General Stoo entered the house without acknowledging Braddle any further. The top of his head, however, hit the top of the door frame as he did so. Braddle laughed. Where should he go? He turned to the left and then to the right. In the distance, he noticed a yellow flag.
“That way.”
Alfie, dressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers stood with the bedroom door handle in his hand and looked at the dark landing and the dark staircase opposite that went down into even more darkness. He looked back at his bed, at his warm imprint lying there still, and then turned to look at the darkness again. He placed the thumb of his other hand on the switch of the torch but did not turn it on. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the room. The three other bedroom doors on the landing were shut. He stopped and listened. A faint snoring noise came from his parents’ bedroom, otherwise all was quiet. He crept to the stairs’ edge and looked down. It was dark but it was not cave-like dark. He could make out the pictures on the wall, the telephone at the bottom of the stairs, the front door with its small black window.
“Here goes” he said to himself. He tiptoed down the edge of the staircase to avoid waking the creaks and squeaks that inhabited most of the steps, particularly the third one down. He kept his eyes focussed on each step in turn and tried to put most of his weight on the leg that was moving to the next stair. At the bottom he turned quickly and headed straight for the kitchen. A hinge on the kitchen door usually shrieked when the door was opened (his mum and dad were still at the negotiation stage with regards to oiling it) so he opened the door slightly and sidled into the room. He took the back-door key off its hook and picked up the strawberry he had placed behind the biscuit tin. The red numbers above the oven said 10.52. I’ll give it to 11.30 he said to himself. The key tapped the entrance to the lock as it went in. With one slow twist of his hand, the door unlocked.
The path to the yellow flag was not a straight one. It snaked round, alongside and at the back of numerous buildings of different sizes and at different stages of construction. Though it was quite late in the day an army of people was still engaged in all kinds of building work: digging, laying foundations, erecting walls, fixing roofs, attaching doors and window frames. Amongst the sounds of sawing and hammering, cries such as ‘catch this’, ‘move out the way’, ‘not like that’ could be heard. The yellow flag was attached to a tall pole on a rise of ground close to the red mountain that rose without end into the clouds and which marked one side of the new Carporoo settlement. The space around the rise had been left empty. After turning the final corner, which belonged to a vast supply depot that seemed to have a vast supply of nothing but black sheets of different sizes, Braddle saw the flag before him hanging on a pole the size of twenty men. ‘What’s the flag for?’ he asked himself. He sprinted up the rise. ‘Made it’, he panted. He placed his chin on the pole and looked up at the flag billowing in the strengthening breeze. On the yellow background a black X had been painted. The sky, beyond the flag, he noticed, was beginning to darken. Night was coming. He turned and faced the direction from which he had come. “Hope I can find the way back” he said to himself.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Brassick” a voice called out behind him. Braddle turned. The rise, on which he stood, sloped down to the red mountain about ten metres away. In the wall, directly facing him, was a hole the size of a man. On either side of this hole stood three figures. Braddle recognised them instantly. It was Naster and his two cronies, Horit and Blug. Naster was tall and thin with closely cropped blond hair; Horit was about the same size as Braddle but with a mean expression decorated with a small scar on his left chee
k (a scar which, he thought, gave him the right to take things off younger boys); and Blug was a lot smaller and more rounded with nostrils that pointed towards anyone he cared to look at. They went to the same training academy as he did though they were two years above him. They were people to avoid.
Naster walked up the slope towards him. Horit and Blug followed. Half way up Blug turned and threw a large stick through the hole in the wall. He turned back satisfied with his aim.
“How are you doing Brassick?” said Naster. “How is your little house coming on? Must be difficult with your father not being there.”
Naster turned to look at Horit and Blug and all three smiled. Braddle did not reply. He felt as if something sour and hateful had crawled towards him and was readying itself to do him harm. He would not show this three headed creature he was afraid though. No. He would not. Such a creature enjoyed fear like a sweet treat and always wanted more.
“You know” continued Naster “clever people never build their own houses. We get dim people like you to do that for us.”
He looked at Horit and Blug again and laughed. They laughed too. Braddle smiled to himself. It was a mystery why bullies liked to think of themselves as clever and witty when they were usually stupid people who told unfunny jokes.
“If you cannot build your own home then you must be dumber than a spronger” replied Braddle defiantly.
Naster stopped laughing.
“No. I’ll tell you what’s dumb. Going on an important mission down the White Road and then disappearing…”
“Probably ran away” interrupted Horit.
“Or got eaten by a big spronger” added Blug.
“Yes. Getting yourself eaten by a big, dumb spronger” continued Naster. “If my cousin, General Stoo, hadn’t taken charge then we wouldn’t be here now.”
“You leave my father alone” replied Braddle angrily. “Your cousin is not fit to polish the buckle on his belt”.
A thud landed on the left side of Braddle’s jaw. It did not hurt exactly, not yet anyway, but it was enough to make him stagger back a few steps.
“How dare you insult my cousin” screamed Naster. “You need to be taught a lesson”.
Braddle had to act quickly. He realised that he could neither fight all three nor outrun them (Horit was fast). There was no glory in allowing himself to be left bloodied on the ground, crying into the dirt. An intelligent warrior, his uncle said, always chooses the right time to stand and fight. He looked down the slope towards the hole in the wall. He took a deep breath. With a swift movement of his right foot he kicked Naster on the shin, hard, and ran as fast as he could towards it. He disappeared through it and in to the darkness beyond before Naster could react.
“Come on. After him”, shouted Naster.