by Lauren Child
Two things were now bugging Ruby. One was Clancy’s unClancy-like behaviour. Clancy was not the sort to run away; he was not an impulsive person, he always thought about the consequences; plus, he wasn’t so keen on the dark.
Ruby also considered it very unlikely that he would go away with the Wichitinos without leaving a note to tell her he had gone on camp. Unless of course he was very mad at her, but if so why was he very mad at her?
Ruby paused to think about this and came up with more than a few reasons. For a start there was his detention, her fault because she had Forgotten to meet him in the diner before school; that was pretty uncool. Then there was dragging him out of his French test and getting him to climb a wall and drop himself into a wild animal reserve. Well, that could be considered at the very least kind of thoughtless; she knew Clancy was stressed about being kept down a year if he failed his test, and then there was the whole dangerous animal thing – not good for someone who didn’t exactly flirt with danger.
And to top that there was the whole tiger incident; she had actually set him up to be devoured by a wild creature. OK, so it wasn’t intentional, but it would have been down to her if that cat had got his chops round Clancy’s neck. These three examples alone were reason enough for Clancy not to want to talk to her. He was in big trouble with his dad and now he was off with the little Wichitinos; how much worse could it get for poor old Clancy Crew? It was all her fault and she needed to track him down and put things right; she would rescue Clancy from camp and bring him home.
Ruby really hadn’t been on top of her game; she had missed a lot: she had not taken any notice of her mother’s claims that a pig or possibly a hippo was loose in the backyard (it had seemed preposterous). Nor had she listened to her dad when he suggested her mom might just be right (the logical explanation: heatstroke). Del’s report of a tiger she had dismissed as a Del Lasco exaggeration (fair enough), but there was other evidence, clues she should have picked up on. What had Gemma Melamare seen in the school corridor? (As it turned out, a python.)
What had taken a bite out of the Harker Square table tennis table? What had happened to Mrs Gilbert’s dog? It seemed unlikely, highly improbable, that wild animals would be roaming the city of Twinford, but what kind of investigative agent was she if she didn’t take the improbable seriously? To quote the great detective Sherlock Holmes:
‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
Or, in other words, Ruby’s RULE 28: IT DOESN’T MATTER IF IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE: IF THERE’S NO OTHER EXPLANATION, IT’S GOTTA BE TRUE.
So now she had woken up and what she was thinking about was Connie Slowfoot or more specifically what Connie had said. ‘I’m not talking about “wolves”, I’m talking about the wolf.’ These words had wormed their way under Ruby’s skin, encircled her thoughts, resulting in a bad feeling in her gut, because what Connie Slowfoot was talking about was an extinct, possibly mythical wolf prowling the forests surrounding Twinford. Connie Slowfoot had said some pretty weird and far-fetched things and Ruby Redfort wouldn’t have minded putting them to one side and ignoring them, but for the fact she believed her. Crazy as it all sounded, every word she had spoken rang true.
Ruby went downstairs to Mrs Digby’s apartment to search out a book she had read many times as a young child. The book was precious to the housekeeper since it had been given to her by her father and, when younger, Ruby had never been permitted to look at it unsupervised for fear of it meeting some sticky end.
It was entitled Improbable Truths and Believable Myths and was more like a book of fairy tales than a useful encyclopedia. She remembered how much she had enjoyed being scared of some of the more gory illustrations and unpleasant descriptions. Ruby flicked through the pages, filled with all kinds of strange and exotic creatures; some had been erased from the planet and others had never existed in the first place. Eventually, she fell upon the page she was searching for.
The Cyan Wolf
Appearance: pale blue eyes ringed with violet. Dark tips to ears and fur that in moonlight can appear blue.
Like other wolves, the Cyan wolf had scent glands in its paws and these helped it to mark territory, warning rival wolves to steer clear and also to attract mates by telling them he or she was in the area. However, in addition to the above functions, the Cyan wolf also used its scent to lure its prey to it – the scent it created being so intoxicating that both animal and human alike would seek it out, losing all sense of fear in their quest to discover the source of this overpowering aroma.
This scent was of particular usefulness when food was scarce and the wolf needed to preserve its energy. By luring its prey right to its lair, it managed to survive in the most hostile of conditions.
The legendary scent of the Cyan Wolf was allegedly much sought after by perfumers. Unlike ambergris*, found in the intestines of sperm whales (also worth a small fortune to those lucky enough to find it), the ‘Alaskan Cyan’ (as it became known) needed no time to develop from a foul smell to a fragrant one.
Ruby looked up the footnote on ambergris.
* Ambergris is a waxy, flammable substance produced by the digestive systems of sperm whales. Having initially an unpleasant odour of decay, it gradually acquires a sweet, earthy scent. It has long been prized as a fixative in the making of perfume (allowing the scent to last much longer).
Alaskan Cyan, on the other hand, is not only a fixative but it is also the perfume itself, with an utterly intoxicating aroma. Consequently hunters, in particular one Jacob Holst, began to hunt Cyan wolves not for their skins but for their scent. By 1800 they were completely wiped out.
There was a drawing of a man being devoured horribly by the creature. The words underneath read: The wolf using its scent to lure a hunter into its trap and so to his death. There wasn’t a whole lot of backup evidence to suggest this was true.
The final word on the subject read:
This savage creature was better known as the Blue Alaskan even though they were often regarded as two different breeds of wolf, one fact, the other myth. Few now believe the reports written about the wolf scent, and Jacob Holst (Mr Wolf as he became known) was later discredited as a fantasist.
The book went no further.
Ruby picked up the black and white photograph of young Mrs Digby and the other maids smiling broadly at the camera, surrounded by rare creatures. The one to the left of Mrs Digby looked very much like a wolf, a wolf with dark-tipped ears and dark-ringed eyes. Could it be a Cyan wolf? But if so then why had it not attacked the smiling people in the photograph? The answer would have to wait until the housekeeper returned home – for now one question was on Ruby’s mind: was there more to the scented papers than met the eye?
The only way to find out was to seek out an expert on the subject of smell, someone with a remarkably good nose.
The bike was even better than Clancy had first thought; the tyres, the suspension, the steering – he felt like he was part of the machine, that he was the Windrush and nothing could catch him. He had a good head start; he knew the truck would have to drive back up the road and take the desert exit before it could even begin to chase him. If he could just make it to the boulders, he could hide out in the warren of caves, some of which he knew like the back of his hand. He would hide out until they gave up looking.
He turned to see how far they were behind him – nowhere as it turned out; they weren’t even a speck on the horizon. All his fear evaporated as he travelled over the rocky terrain and headed towards the rock valley, the faraway forest of Wolf Paw looming in the distance.
He was going to outrun these guys. He might even get as far as the forest and, once there, he was going to lose them entirely, with or without the bike. He could hide out or he could walk on back to Twinford. His scouting days had trained him well and he had a good sense of direction. He even smiled at the thought; he felt fearless and in control, and that’s when it all went wrong. He was so taken up with r
eaching the forest that he was not observing the large stones littering the route. It was merely a matter of time before he hit one.
Clancy felt the full force of the rock as his wheel came down hard on it.
He let go the handlebars and was flung off sideways. He got to his feet, a little shocked but unhurt, and stumbled towards the bike and climbed back on; instantly, he knew something was wrong.
The Windrush 2000, with its unpuncturable tyres, had a puncture.
Chapter 53.
Coming into focus
RUBY CYCLED OUT ALONG MOUNTAIN ROAD. It was the long way round, but it was the way she knew and she didn’t want to risk getting lost on Little Bear Mountain. Once she reached the track turn, she veered up Lake Road and cycled towards the forest; the track took you round the three Little Bear lakes and then on up the mountain.
As she passed the biggest lake, known as Emerald Lake, she could hear the Wichitinos calling out to each other. Ruby stopped for a moment and took a look at them through her binoculars: they seemed to be having fun, unconcerned about their dorky yellow uniforms, busy constructing rafts that they hoped would float. She scanned the camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clancy Crew, but she couldn’t see him. Probably on latrine-building duty, she thought.
The Wichitino Camp was a fairly long way from Autumn Lake, which was where she needed to get to; she had gone way too far west, but at least she knew where she was: better to be safe than sorry.
The Swann retreat, Still Water, was a house designed as shelves of stone jutting out across Autumn Lake, wide glass windows sandwiched between each layer so light could flood in. It was impossible to see the steel pillars that pinned it to the lakeshore so it appeared to be hovering magically over the water, several tons of rock deceiving the eye.
Ruby rode her bike up the wide raked wooden gangplank. The wind chimes turned slowly in the light breeze that blew in from the lake; there was no entry phone, no doorbell, no doorknocker, no door handle. She banged on the heavy wood with her small fist and just like that the door gave and Ruby stepped inside, Bug padding behind her. The floors were a mixture of smoothed rock and polished wood planks, the corridor a cool sanctuary leading to dappled, sunlit rooms which in turn opened out onto the glittering lake.
‘Hello?’ called Ruby. ‘Sorry to walk in like this.’
No answer.
‘But you know you have no doorbell?’
No answer.
‘No lock either.’
She continued down the passage, Bug in front.
‘Anyone home?’
Nothing, just the gentle lapping of water and sound of bird life and. . . a piano.
Ruby followed the music and found herself in a large room full of flickering light. A small woman wearing a simple black dress was playing a grand piano; the huge windows were all slid back into the walls and so the outside was inside and the inside, outside.
Madame Swann stopped playing.
‘Who is it?’ she said, but before an answer could be given she had figured it out for herself. ‘Rose petals and bubblegum. . . Brant and Sabina’s daughter,’ and then she turned to look at Ruby.
‘Hey, how dya know that?’ said Ruby.
‘I never forget a fragrance,’ trilled Madame Swann.
‘You’re pretty good,’ said Ruby. ‘You know everyone by smell?’
‘I have a good memory for scent,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘My nose never forgets.’ She held out her hand. ‘A pleasure to see you again, but what has brought you to the edge of nowhere?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, I need you to take a look at something for me,’ said Ruby.
The perfumer nodded. ‘If you think I can help.’
Ruby took the scented papers from her satchel and laid them on the table. Each was in its own plastic sleeve to prevent them from contaminating each other.
Madame Swann took one at random and shook it from its case and picked it up very carefully between her gloved fingers. The first thing she did, the very first, was to bring it up to her face and inhale.
‘You sniff everything before you read it?’
‘It is the way I look at things,’ said Madame Swann. ‘I see with my nose. Smell is the most important sense: it tells you all you need to know about a person or a place, even a piece of writing paper.’ She looked at Ruby sideways. ‘Besides, you surely came here for my nose?’
‘I’m not going to lie to you Madame Swann, I am here for your nose. So what’s the perfume? Where does it come from?’
‘It’s not perfume.’
Ruby was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Madame Swann shrugged. ‘It’s scents, lots of scents. There’s pine and orange, sandalwood, vanilla. . .’ She inhaled again. ‘Thyme and anise.’
‘But not a perfume?’ said Ruby.
‘No, just individual scents.’
One by one Madame Swann took the envelopes from the table and carefully now, with gloved hand, pulled out the slip of plain paper inside each envelope.
She wrote down the smells captured in each. ‘Where did you get these?’ she asked.
Ruby paused before answering. ‘From someone’s apartment. I’m not sure whose apartment exactly.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Madame Swann.
‘I don’t officially know the occupant. I just had an address and, well, these were there,’ said Ruby. ‘I wasn’t exactly invited in – you know what I’m saying?’
Madame Swann nodded. ‘I think so.’ She smelled each one again, very carefully.
‘I cannot understand why anyone would scent paper like this; it is not a good combination of smell. This one has vanilla, as does this and this, but this one is the only one to have sandalwood. It has something unpleasant too, something I would not put in perfume.’
Ruby was thinking of her biology class, the textbooks she had read on smell as communicator, how everything has smell and how everything communicates via smell.
‘If I suggested these papers held a code, would you think I was crazy?’ asked Ruby.
Madame Swann looked at her, a glint in her eye. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I think that is the only thing that makes any sense.’
Chapter 54.
Survival instinct
THE PROBLEM FOR CLANCY, among a whole forest of problems, was that he was utterly visible: he was a boy standing in the middle of a rocky desert terrain with not a shrub, not a tumbleweed to hide behind. He let the bike fall to the ground and began to run; he was a great runner, an even better long-distance runner than he was a sprinter; he had stamina and speed, but what use were stamina and speed when racing against a speeding car? Who can outrun a motor vehicle?
It was utterly pointless, but it wasn’t in him to give up. Clancy Crew would run until they caught him and killed him because that was obviously what they had in mind. He’d seen too much, he knew that now. Why didn’t they want him to call the paramedics? How could he have been so naive as to think that man was sick? It was clear to him now: the man had already been dead. Clancy could hear the roar of the truck growing louder and louder, coming closer and closer, but he would not stop, could not stop.
The truck slowed as it neared him; he could feel the engine vibrating through the rock and up into every single one of his bones, but still he ran. The sweat poured off his brow and traced down his cheeks; he stumbled on, determined, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘Stop boy!’ shouted a voice. But he couldn’t; his legs were moving of their own accord and nothing could make them stop, nothing could make him stop, at least not until he heard the sound of a bullet ricocheting off the rock somewhere to the left of his head.
‘You have a chance to live. I would take it if I were you. Unless you want to die. Do you want to die?’ said the voice.
Clancy stood still; he didn’t think he needed to answer. Who answered that kind of question?
‘I take it the answer is no.’
Chapter 55.
Sniffing out a code
THEY CHOSE ONE OF THE SCENTED NOTES AND MADAME SWANN CAREFULLY DECIPHERED EVERY SMELL while Ruby wrote the perfumer’s findings on separate sheets of paper.
Thyme.
Vanilla.
Anise.
Cinnamon.
Orange.
Ruby looked at the list. What were these scents telling them? How was this working? What was the key?
Thinking back to the survival test code, she played for a moment in her mind with anagrams, taking the letters of THYME and VANILLA and ANISE and so on and jumbling them up – but it didn’t throw up anything meaningful.
Ruby stared ahead across the water and into the forest, her eyes unblinking, unfocused, letting the thoughts swim.
Molecules, names, types of smell, masculine, feminine, associations, what were the connecting factors?
Then she stopped. She was approaching this the wrong way round. She needed to remain logical.
The code was made up of smells.
But the message that the code masked would be made up of letters.
Conclusion: she needed to think of a way to get from smells to letters.
Smells to letters. . .
Letters. . .
She sat up straight.
She was remembering the book she’d read in Mrs Greg’s class when she was supposed to be studying something else. She remembered the chapter that dealt with benzene rings.
Benzene, C6H6, is a ring of six carbon atoms, connected by alternating single and double bonds:
Carbon and hydrogen, she thought. C and H.
Letters.
She turned to Madame Swann. ‘This is a long shot,’ she said. ‘But you wouldn’t happen to know the chemical formulas for these smells?’
Madame Swann thought for a moment, clearly puzzled. ‘I. . . Yes. I have a book which lists the formulas for most of the aromatic compounds.’