The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne

by Jonathan Stroud

  Scarlett went to the box, threw the lid open, took out a long-muzzled gun, began doing competent things with cartridges. Joe hurried to Ettie, who was chasing her ball across the deck. With unexpected speed, he scooped her up, bundled her to the nearest crate, and to Albert’s horrified amazement thrust her inside. He shut the lid, oozing tension, and locked it. Ettie made no sound.

  “What are you doing that for?” Albert asked. “You’ll upset her!”

  “Shut up,” Scarlett said. She hurried past him with the rifle, went to stand with Joe. “You keeping the engine on?”

  “I don’t like to. But the current’s so devilishly slow.”

  “Keep it on.”

  Joe went to the tiller, adjusted it so the raft moved away from the left-hand bank. The raft chugged onward. Light played softly in the greenness overhead. Scarlett raised the rifle to her shoulder and stood on the left side of the raft, pointing it toward the forest. The vast black trunks stretched into dimness like the columns of a subterranean hall. Thick dunes of red-brown leaves sloped out into the water. A faint smell of burning reached the raft, a peculiar sweet-sharp tang that made Albert wrinkle his nose. All at once, he realized how silent the forest was beyond the throb of the engine, how utterly dead and still.

  A minute passed. They drew level with the thin column of smoke. It was set back a little from the bank, and the source could not be seen. The old man was a low, hunched form at the tiller; Scarlett and her rifle might have been carved from stone.

  Albert’s heart was pounding, a fact he found rather peculiar. It was entirely due to the reaction of the others. He wanted to sieve Scarlett, understand her fears, but knew he needed to concentrate on what was around him. It was odd, though. He couldn’t see that anything—

  Scarlett’s rifle made a sudden movement, a quick jerk sideways. Albert started; he turned his eyes in the same direction. Far off in the trees, where the light broke and became green shadow, two shapes were standing. They were human-sized, but very thin and of an almost luminous paleness. He could not see their faces, their clothes, or what they carried. They made no sound. Albert imagined they were watching the raft go by, but there was no evidence of this, as they did not move or react in any way. Nevertheless, Scarlett kept her sights locked on them, turning herself slowly as the raft passed on around the curve of the river. She didn’t fire. The two white shapes became granular, were lost in dimness beyond the trees. Scarlett kept the rifle trained on the bank. She kept it there for twenty minutes, until the raft came out of the woods and the sunlight fell on them properly again. Then she lowered it with a sigh.

  Joe revved the motor and went to let Ettie out of the crate. The raft sped on.

  Albert found that his jumper was wet with sweat. He at last caught Scarlett’s eye.

  “The Tainted,” she said. “Think yourself lucky. They must have eaten recently.”

  * * *

  —

  Not too long afterward, with an almost shocking abruptness, the endless woods gave way to scrubland, and the scrubland to reed marshes and low green water meadows. A sense of sweet relief was palpable on the raft. Albert shared it, though he did not fully comprehend the reason why.

  The old man wiped his forehead with a yellow handkerchief. “Well, we’ve evaded disaster twice over today, which is more than enough for anyone.” He nodded with grim appreciation at Scarlett, who was putting away the rifle. “I sense your competence in matters of violence. Where did you learn your skills?”

  Scarlett shrugged. “I’ve been around.”

  “I can see that. Been around places of death and slaughter, and come out with a spring in your step. It’s a sad state for one so young.”

  “Is it?” Scarlett’s face showed no emotion, but Albert could feel the doors closing in her mind, as they always did whenever her past was evoked. “I’m alive, which is what counts,” she said. “Alive—and free to make my own way in the world.”

  “Yes,” Joe said, “and where will that way lead you? To yet more robberies, ever-greater wickedness, and a horrid, messy end….” He rubbed his hands together festively. “Still, enough of my predictions. The good news for now is we are nearing the floodplains. Once there, we can hole up amongst the reeds and rest. We will need to use the oars soon. You will find them clipped beneath the gunnels. Take them out and keep them ready.”

  Scarlett went to locate the oars, as cool, calm, and efficient as she had been all day. Albert lagged behind her, looking back the way they’d come, conscious again of a pressure in his belly, an agitation weighing on him like a stone. He’d had the sensation since waking. In the forest, it had dwindled; now it was gathering strength again. He stared along the river’s emptiness, its curving mudflats…Nothing on the water. Just sunlight and floating branches and small white wading birds. He found it hard to look away.

  The Thames entered the floodlands. There was evidence of human occupation again beside the river. Black cattle lay hunkered like gun emplacements in the meadows, heads swiveling slowly as they passed. Now small settlements hugged the river bends—clusters of single-storied wooden houses standing above the mud on concrete supports.

  Joe gave their names as they went by: Witney, Eynsham, Yarnton…“The people trade mostly in wickerwork,” he said. “In the ordinary way, if you want reed baskets, shrimp pots, or amusingly endowed model donkeys, they are good places to stop. But you are not ordinary travelers, are you? We must keep going.”

  As they passed the final village, the raft’s motor began to make dyspeptic clicks and pops and emitted occasional puffs of smoke. Scarlett and Albert looked at each other in alarm. It was noticeable that their speed was not as marked as before.

  The old man shrugged. “The engine’s overheating. It’s not used to being in the service of fleeing desperadoes all the day. And we are probably running short of petrol. For now, we have to slow our pace.”

  “If we must,” Scarlett said. “We’re almost at the reeds, so it probably doesn’t matter.”

  Albert made a small sound, half sigh, half moan. “I think it might, you know,” he said. “Look.”

  He pointed. Far back along the river: a flash, a bright white glimmer. It came again.

  Sunlight on a windshield, maybe.

  And a dot in the distance, growing.

  “Scarlett…,” Albert said.

  She cursed, put a penny in her cuss-box. “I see it. Joe—”

  The old man gunned the motor. “Don’t hassle me. I’m doing what I can.”

  The raft sped up, then slowed again, the engine skittish now, sometimes revving valiantly, sometimes losing energy for no apparent reason. The dot became a smudge; the smudge became a boat, blunt-nosed and bullet-like, carving an arrow of spume and froth beneath it. Albert could not take his eyes off it.

  “They’re catching up,” he said. “It’s no good. They’re catching up with us fast.”

  He could feel panic washing up inside his limbs. Beside him, Scarlett was calmly inspecting her revolver, checking the cartridges in her belt loops. Doing the things she did before the onset of bloodshed. She didn’t say anything. She was chewing on a strand of hair. It was her only concession to nerves.

  The raft rounded a bend, temporarily out of sight of the boat behind. Reedbeds bristled on either side—thick as fox pelt and veined with inlets of muddy water that wound into their depths. Joe held course for another minute, perhaps two—then shut off the throttle. The engine pulsed, throbbed deeply, came almost to a standstill. He moved the tiller so the raft turned at ninety degrees and nosed toward the reedbeds.

  “Take up the oars!” he called. “No time to lose.”

  Albert took a long-handled oar; following Scarlett’s lead, he stood at the front of the raft, keeping obstacles at bay. Nudging and negotiating, they approached a break in the reeds. Joe steered the raft in, away from the open current. He shut
the engine off entirely. It was a quiet, green place. The feathered reed tops waved gently above their heads. Scarlett and Albert moved the oars, began to row them deeper in among the stems. They zigzagged slowly onward. The open river was far behind, and there was still no sign of the shore.

  The old man rummaged at his shirt front and drew out an object on a silver chain. “Which of you’s got the strongest lungs?”

  “Need you ask?” Scarlett said. “Me.”

  “Then you can have this whistle. Its sound is too high-pitched for human ears, but it wards off blood-otters, river-snakes, and other creatures that infest the Thames. It has saved my life a hundred times, and if you lose it, I will seek appalling vengeance.” The old man tossed the whistle across. “Start blowing. This is otter country. I’ve seen buck otters in these waters big enough to swallow a girl like you whole.”

  For a minute or more, they eased deeper into the green dark. Scarlett blew repeatedly on the whistle, which made no audible sound.

  At last Joe raised a hand. “Now we must be silent and wait.”

  Ettie was uneasy in the reeds. In her mind, the green curtain was alive with monstrous forms that wished to reach out and seize her. She whimpered, and threatened to do more. Joe padded to a box and returned with a heel of bread. The child took it, snuffling, and stuffed it in her mouth.

  They waited. The reeds hung still, the raft floating dim and silent in the shadows.

  Along the sunlit waterway came the sound of a pulsing motor. It drew near, growing in intensity. Albert watched through the forest of reed stems. Most of the open water was blocked from view, but he could see a single patch of dappled sunlight, stretching almost to the other side of the river. The pressure inside him, the stone in his belly, grew greater. The sound was very loud now—loud, but disembodied, and the white-prowed boat that suddenly cut into view seemed to move independently of it. It flowed forward smoothly and effortlessly and very fast, with a lip of clean, white water dancing along the curve of the hull. In seconds it had passed onward and away, and thus Albert only had a moment to take in the stocky man in the bowler hat and long gray coat standing at the wheel. And Dr. Calloway, sitting stiff and pale and upright in the seat beside him.

  She did not look, she did not notice them. Albert stood frozen, as helpless as if strapped back in his chair in the testing room at Stonemoor. The motorboat passed out of sight. The noise of the engine dwindled. A faint wash passed through the reed forest and struck the side of the raft, rocking it feebly up and down.

  For Scarlett, reaching sanctuary in the reedbeds was the culmination of a highly successful day. They had evaded their enemies, survived several open skirmishes, and progressed a fair way down the Thames. They had bypassed a close encounter with the Tainted, which was perhaps the greatest relief of all. The raft had proved maneuverable, the old man acceptably competent; even the child had bothered her less than she had feared. It couldn’t really have gone much better. After the near disaster at Lechlade, there was much to be thankful for.

  It had been interesting to watch Albert, too. It was true that he had not demonstrated any further startling powers, but the tenacity of the pursuit was yet more evidence of the value Shilling and the woman placed in him. Equally obvious was the utter terror he felt of Dr. Calloway. Five minutes later, with her long gone, he was still trembling like a jackrabbit. Scarlett practically had to coerce him to take up an oar.

  They poled the raft a little way on, until they reached a watery glade, where the reeds formed an unbroken wall around them. It was the perfect refuge to spend the night. The sky was a darkening dome, the raft floated in the center of the circle. They were sealed off from the outside world as if in the belly of a whale.

  The old man lowered a lump of masonry on the end of a chain; this would be their anchor. Soon he had smoked fish and sliced potatoes frying in a pan: the smell was so delicious, it made Scarlett feel quite faint. She hung a lantern at the tent, where the child sat with her wooden blocks, then went to where Albert sat, gazing at the dark.

  “I meant to tell you,” she said. “You did well today.”

  “Today?”

  “The chase. The Tainted. The whole thing.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “I don’t think I actually did anything.”

  “Exactly. You didn’t fall in the river, or hit me with the oar, or squeal annoyingly at key moments…. Basically you managed to avoid cocking things up.”

  A wan smile replaced the frown. “Thank you, Scarlett.”

  “And your Dr. Calloway has lost us now. We’re safe.”

  “Really? I would like to believe that.”

  Scarlett looked across at the old man. “Joe! Our pursuers are ahead of us. How shall we avoid them tomorrow?”

  Joe was squatting at the griddle, prodding at the food with a wooden spoon. “More than likely they will head to Chalgrove—that’s the next main river town. At some stage, they’ll realize they’ve missed you and lie in wait. Fortunately, here in the floodlands there are options. I suggest we go a different way.”

  “Aha, good. Which is?”

  “The river splits into many channels among the reed islands. The southernmost passes the Didcot Barrens, which are sinister but uninhabited, and rejoins the main artery at Bladon Point, where there is a trading post. I have stopped there several times. A group of ten or twelve men occupy the fort. They are soldiers and traders; rough men, but honest in their way. They operate quays on both sides of the hill. We can get food and petrol there, and continue to the lagoon. We will have left your enemies far behind.”

  “You see?” Scarlett turned again to Albert. “Farewell and good riddance, Dr. Calloway. You can forget all about her now. Your destiny is yours again.”

  Something of his old optimism was returning to Albert’s face. “I hope you are right,” he said, “and that I will come at last to the Free Isles.”

  “Yes, where you can cuddle up with some other madmen on a barren, windswept beach.” Scarlett felt a sudden sharp swell of annoyance at Albert’s persistent naïveté, his stubborn devotion to his plan. Really, it was such a waste of his talents…. She gave a shrug of unconcern. “But it’s your life,” she added. “Do what you like with it.”

  From the griddle, the old man chuckled. “Wise words indeed, coming from a murderous bandit and ne’er-do-well! Listen to her closely, boy. And note the many patches on her coat and trousers, which show how competent her own life choices have been!”

  Scarlett snorted but didn’t respond. Albert blinked in surprise. “I think you do Scarlett a disservice, Joe. She is a complex person. True, she is a killer, a wanderer, and a thief. But have you not also seen her meditating on her sacred mat?”

  The old man hooted. “What does that prove? Possessing a manky old mat means nothing! Does that make her holy? No. I’ve got fleas in my underpants that are more holy than this girl. That dirty tube doesn’t change a thing. I bet she’s brained people with it.” He raised a tufted eyebrow and squinted at Scarlett. “I’m right, aren’t I? You have.”

  Scarlett in fact dimly recalled a street fight in Swindon in which she had been forced to use the tube’s strap as a garrote. She stood, scowling. “Yep, and I’d be very happy to do it again in the next ten seconds, unless we have fewer insults and more cooking.”

  Still chuckling, the old man continued with his work, and in due course, the meal was eaten. As the smell had promised, it was delicious. Everyone was content. Joe and Ettie retreated beneath their eiderdown. Albert lay a short way off upon the deck; soon enough, he slept too.

  Scarlett leaned back against a crate. Frogs called amidst the marshes. Overhead, an infinite mosaic of stars shone down. Presently an image from the past assailed her, as it sometimes did in the soft shallows of the night. It walked round and round the raft on little feet, never quite breaking free of the circling reeds, never coming out into the light. Scarle
tt sat motionless as the guilt scratched away at her insides. It was right to let it do so. This was its time.

  Close by, there came a great soft watery sound, as of something large and deft easing itself into the shallows. Scarlett returned abruptly to the present. She felt ripples break against the side of the raft, and she reached out for her gun. The noise retreated. The stars shone. In due course, her willpower faltered: Scarlett heard and saw nothing more.

  * * *

  —

  In the blue light of dawn, with the mists thick upon the water, they steered the raft silently out of the reedbeds, to once again reach the center of the Thames. The motor was left switched off. They passed on amongst the low reed islands and so came to a place where the river divided assertively into a number of separate streams.

  “We take the right-most fork,” Joe whispered. “The left is the route of honest folk. We take the path of outlaws and moral deviants. Ettie—shield your eyes!”

  The little girl was playing Peepo with Albert from behind the bedclothes, uttering belly laughs at the extravagant faces that he pulled. She did not seem to care about the way.

  After half an hour, with no sign of danger and still with nothing but mists and reeds about them, they switched the engine on. Now Scarlett took up the tiller. The old man’s wounded ear had swollen badly in the night, and he was showing signs of fever. He took a swig of antibiotic tincture from Scarlett’s first-aid kit and retired to his chair.

  The river swept on; the day passed quietly. Scarlett and Albert took turns steering the raft. The motorboat of Dr. Calloway was not seen, and nor were any other vessels. The floodlands were sprawling and empty, the raft an improbable spot of color floating in their midst.

  In midafternoon, a range of low hills swung up from the south. The nearest hill was bare and arid, spotted with black glass and crisscrossed with charcoal lines as if it had been blistered by lightning strikes long ago. As the raft passed the hill, it bucked and twisted on unseen currents, its beams rattling. Scarlett felt her teeth vibrating in her head. Then they were away and past, with reedbeds resuming on the banks and the stream continuing smoothly.