by Martin Vine
But if this is a rescue, who ordered it and why?
All questions for another time. For now, Hopskotch and Dobbin were content enough to be in the charge of someone who knew how to get around unnoticed. No one interrupted their escape, nor did they pass by a single other Sylt.
But even the stranger was not going to take a chance on that happening. Just past a crooked intersection, he led them into a stormwater drain that disappeared below street level. The tunnel’s mesh grill was broken open, allowing just enough width for a lean Sylt to fit through. It was a bit of a struggle for Dobbin (because of his gear, as he complained on the way through) but eventually everyone squeezed inside.
The hideout offered dubious sanctuary, but Hopskotch was greatly relieved to be off the streets and beyond the reach of marauding cadets.
For the moment.
“Barnacles!” the stranger laughed, slapping his palms together. “Well, that was bracing, eh?”
An unholy sound erupted from the base of his throat, like bubbles being sucked through a straw. He doubled over and began to cough violently. If not for the roar from a nearby water sluice, Hopskotch might have worried about the noise giving away their position.
Eventually, the coughing fit ran its course. Following a series of gruesome-sounding attempts at clearing his throat, the stranger assumed control of himself. Through teary eyes, he took several deep, drawn-out breaths. The filth-covered Sylt collapsed his entire bodyweight against the curved tunnel wall to stop himself keeling over. A whimper escaped his lips.
Hopskotch and Dobbin were not faring much better, both bruised and exhausted. Clutching his stomach, Dobbin braced himself with one arm against the bricks, breathing deeply – in through the nose, out through the mouth – in an attempt to relieve the stitch in his side. Hopskotch had already sunk to his haunches, panting heavily while gingerly rubbing the ache from muscles he didn’t even know he had.
“Bracing!” Hopskotch recognised the word. His grandfather had used it back in the Gulch.
Must be something old folk say, he pondered, too tired to think much on it. The boys were so relieved at their unlikely escape, it didn’t greatly bother them that they’d taken refuge in one of the most putrid drains in industrial Bridgetown.
But what now? And where?
The stranger remained huddled just inside the broken grille, his outline silhouetted against the chequered circle of light at the drain opening. Alongside his teammate, Hopskotch waited deeper underground. Relief turning into suspicion, the Syltling stared at the tall, dark figure, wondering what the mittens he was up to.
Paying them no regard whatsoever, the grown-up began rummaging through a small shoulder bag he’d twisted around his hip. “Gotcha!” he announced suddenly, pulling something from the bottom reaches with a hollow clinking sound.
There was a lot of fiddling going on, but not much happening that Hopskotch could see.
After several unsuccessful attempts, the stranger struck a match. The wick on his globe lamp burst into flame, and the darkness of the tunnel retreated beyond the reach of its golden glow. Long shadows leapt immediately away from the boys, looming large and distorted against the curved brick walls. Bringing the lamp to eye level, the stranger shuffled over and, bending down, peered into Hopskotch’s face before turning to inspect Dobbin. A puzzled expression settled over him.
“Hmmm, odd choice!” he muttered.
Hopskotch and Dobbin blinked in confusion. Looking down at them with a look somewhere between curiosity and indifference was the Sylt they knew only as Blackpaw: Bridgetown’s most notorious street tramp.
‘Master of Rogues’ to some, ‘Worthless Hobo’ to others, Blackpaw was a well-known scrounger and thief who haunted Market Square and the nearby surrounds of central Bridgetown.
His real name was a mystery. As none had ever found the courage to speak to him directly, the schoolboys simply named him as they saw him, ‘Blackpaw’, for treading the city streets above and below ground, day in and night out, had left the man with feet and ankles so filthy that his legs were coal black all the way up to his knees.
When he wasn’t slouched against a damp stone wall wheezing, Blackpaw stood almost six feet tall, with a wiry build that added the appearance of an extra inch at least. It was impossible to tell exactly what colouration of Sylt he might have been originally, for lax hygiene had left his hair and skin stained with a permanent shadow of grime. With his trademark sooty, black rags – which may or may not have once been a long coat – Blackpaw boasted a rather frightening wraith-like appearance, yet he was not a Sylt who inspired fear. To most Bridgetown locals, Blackpaw was just another down-on-his-luck tramp, nothing more, nothing less.
But could he be trusted?
Hopskotch was inclined to ever give strangers the benefit of the doubt (Dobbin, quite the opposite). But to be rescued by such an infamous character was something he could not get his head around. He wracked his brain and dredged up all he could remember about ol’ Blackpaw.
Playground fact number one: Blackpaw was a public nuisance in the food district, begging from passers-by and even stealing on occasion (so it was told).
Playground fact number two: no one had ever seen him eat. Every morsel he was able to beg, scrounge or plunder was promptly secreted into one of his hidden pockets, presumably for later. Naturally, this led to all manner of unwholesome rumours about what his diet might actually consist of.
Playground fact number three: his ongoing battle with the Bridgetown Street Cadets – who considered it their civic duty to hound the unfortunate fellow right out of the city – was the stuff of legend. Blackpaw was as crafty as he was dirty, and standing up to the mayor’s deputised bullies had even earned him a grudging respect in the schoolyard. Anyone who thumbed their nose at the hated Roaches had to have some good to them.
Then there were the myths and half-truths: it was rumoured Blackpaw knew of secret paths beneath Bridgetown – natural caverns and man-made passages – and that every nook and cranny in the old town was at his disposal. Some even hinted that the tramp was responsible for the mysterious artwork which appeared at random on the city streets.
One of Bridgetown’s most enduring mysteries (all of which were recorded by Hopskotch’s school friend Bartrem), city locals would often set off to work to be greeted by elaborate symbols chalked onto the cobblestones and pavers. No one really knew what they meant, or what purpose they served. Such questions fuelled as much gossip as the identity of the artist themself.
Hopskotch had only seen the symbols a few times, for he didn’t find himself in town very often, and the cadets were under standing orders to remove the chalk-work as soon as it appeared. Hopskotch could never understand why. The few times he’d been lucky enough to see the symbols, they’d inspired a feeling of wonder he could hardly describe.
But could someone like this be behind them?
Blackpaw was no doubt an intriguing character, and often romanticised, but even Hopskotch found it hard to believe such a pitiful-looking fellow could produce art so beautiful.
Of course, his friend Bartrem insisted it was so.
“Well,” Blackpaw sighed, finally breaking the silence. “They certainly don’t make ’em like they used to!”
Quite unexpectedly, he lunged toward Hopskotch. The jittery Syltling flinched.
Blackpaw clucked his tongue, then reached across and gently pulled the broken net out from Hopskotch’s pack.
Hopskotch exhaled in relief as the stranger pulled away, then wrinkled his nose in disgust on the following breath. A mixture of stale gin and body odour washed over him. Hopskotch instinctively took a step back, working the muscles in his nostrils to prevent more of Blackpaw’s stench from entering.
Oblivious to the reaction, Blackpaw kept on talking as if Hopskotch was a dear old friend. “Ye really should be more careful if ye’re gonna get about with such shoddy tech.” Running his eye over the damaged handle of the net, he pronounced it beyond repair and casually tos
sed it to one side.
Hopskotch felt suddenly quite sulky. A horrible thought struck him. In a panic, he frisked about his vest pocket to check the brooch was still there and undamaged (it was). Elsewhere in his mind, Hopskotch grasped for a proper way to address the older man. He dare not call him Blackpaw, but that was all he had.
“I need to find my grandfather!” Hopskotch blurted, then immediately cringed at how infantile it sounded. Even Dobbin looked at him askew. “Err, I mean we need to get up to the lake,” he resumed in a deliberately deeper voice, “Cotteslope, specifically. My grandfather has a —umm, something we need.”
Beyond raising an eyebrow, Blackpaw didn’t seem particularly interested. He returned to rummaging about in his rucksack as if Hopskotch had never spoken.
Then Dobbin piped up, all bluster and blow. “What did you mean, poor choice?”
“Ahh, here we are,” Blackpaw announced, ignoring Dobbin. “Thought I had a twix but nary just the one!”
The dialect was unfamiliar to both boys, and extremely difficult to understand.
Pulling another globe lamp from his pack, he handed it to Hopskotch. “Yee’ll just hefta to share, Snapperlings! Now I’ll lead, Shorty in the middle, and yee ken take stern.” Looking deep into Hopskotch’s eyes he said, “Call me Bellows.”
Hopskotch swallowed in shame, firmly convinced the tramp had been reading his mind all along. He looked to the globe lamp in his palm. Even though it was not yet lit, the smooth surface felt warm to touch.
“Umm,” Hopskotch enquired nervously, “what do we need these for?” He suspected he knew the answer, but silently prayed he was mistaken.
Bellows struck another match, leaning in to light the globe lamp still held in Hopskotch’s hand. When the wick finally caught, the lamplight illuminated the man’s face in a rich orange-yellow. He brought his nose level with Hopskotch’s and beamed a reassuring smile.
Instinct urged Hopskotch to take another sideways step away, but there was something warm behind the man’s eyes that gave him pause.
But how strange they were. Chestnut brown irises flecked with gold. Such colour Hopskotch had never seen before in Syltian eyes: least, not outside his dreams. It was nearly enough to make him forget the unholy smell.
“Because we ney be goin’ that way,” Bellows explained, signalling toward the tunnel entrance.
He turned away from Hopskotch. Stretching to full height, Bellows bumped his head on the arched ceiling and cursed in a language neither boy recognised. Hunching over to avoid a repeat performance, he pointed into the black. “We be goin’ thattaway!”
A cheeky grin curled the corners of his mouth. Before either Syltling could argue, Bellows squeezed past the stunned youngsters and began walking up-tunnel, surrounded by an aura of golden light.
Hopskotch and Dobbin remained frozen by indecision.
Without looking back or slowing his step, Bellows added, “And I said ‘odd’ choice, not ‘poor’!”
Under and Over
Wearing a scowl, Dobbin pointed his nose in the opposite direction Bellows was headed and marched right back to the drain entrance. Such a boar-headed act of defiance didn’t surprise his teammate in the least. Dobbin was by far the most cynical and suspicious boy Hopskotch knew.
He was also the roundest.
A smile crept over Hopskotch’s face as he watched Dobbin struggling to squeeze himself through the opening and back out onto the street. Like the crayfish traps the boys would take up to the lake on weekends, the metal grate had broken inwards, so getting out proved far more difficult than getting in. The harder Dobbin tried, the more flustered he became at his lack of progress. With a careful rearrangement of his bulging luggage, he might have had an even chance, but betrayed by his life-long fondness for sweet pastries, Dobbin made it only as far as his waist. Before the hapless Syltling could push a single leg out into daylight, the sound of approaching voices from the upper lane sent him scurrying back into the refuge of the dark.
“It’s just the damp,” Dobbin remarked, shouldering past Hopskotch to the distant silhouette of Bellows, who was beckoning them on from up-tunnel. “Makes everything expand, you know.”
Hopskotch was secretly relieved. He wasn’t keen to test their luck against the cadets just yet, not in broad daylight. With globe lamp in hand, he wrinkled his nose against the smell and followed his friend into the black. The idea of accompanying a known criminal through a dank stormwater drain would be enough to make his mother faint.
He couldn’t stop grinning at the thought.
The eerie quiet of the tunnel was broken only by a steady trickling sound. Streaming down the curved brick walls, trails of water fed into a shallow channel underfoot. The width of the passage was only wide enough for single file, but Hopskotch found he could walk comfortably with one foot either side of the running water.
He wasn’t sure how far below ground level they were, but it was enough to cool the air noticeably. Hopskotch began to amuse himself blowing puffs of steam from his mouth, then watching as they unravelled within the light of the globe lamp. The glow bathed the tunnel’s brickwork in warm caramel browns that sparkled as if alive. If he weren’t so shy, Hopskotch might even have asked Bellows where he got the lamp oil, for such a vibrant display of colour he had never seen before. Even Dobbin appeared distracted by the beautiful light dancing around them.
Less than one hundred yards in, Bellows pulled up at an intersection where a smaller drain forked to the right.
Dobbin – still in the middle – turned, wrinkling his nose.
Hopskotch hoped his teammate would keep his mouth shut, though he knew there was little chance of that.
“Hold up there a sec’,” barked Dobbin, as if on cue with Hopskotch’s thoughts. Peering into the darkness beyond Bellows’ shoulder, he said, “Before we go, err, in there, just two questions.”
Hopskotch prayed whatever was about to come out of Dobbin’s mouth wouldn’t offend Bellows. There’s was no telling how they’d get out of such a place should their guide deem them ungrateful and abandon them to the black.
“Firstly,” asked Dobbin. “Where are we going?”
Bellows looked at him like he must be a bit slow. He turned his head to peer into the darkness of the upper drain, before returning to Dobbin. “Uphill,” he replied, flatly.
Hopskotch looked between his feet to see the water trickling past, moving in the same direction it had been since they started their subterranean journey. He knew damned well they were going uphill, as did Dobbin.
“Why did you help us back there?”
Dobbin’s second question seemed to snag Bellows’ attention. The tramp looked uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Well let’s just say—”
Both boys inched forward, tilting their heads in anticipation.
Bellows held the pause, then quite suddenly abandoned the sentence. Parting his cloak around his left leg, he held the globe lamp alongside his thigh to reveal a wicked scar running from knee to hip. “And there’s one to match, down me back. Oh, and the three broken ribs. In the winter, it feels like they’re wrapped in razors. Did I mention they tried to break me fingers?”
He wriggled the crooked digits wrapped around the globe lamp, making sure both boys got a good look. Releasing the hem of his cloak, Bellows turned tail and clambered up into the new tunnel. Before he was completely in, he said, “So let’s just say, I hate ’em more than ye know. Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way.”
Guilt flooded Hopskotch. He couldn’t believe he’d missed something so simple as to actually thank the man who’d just saved their hides. He spared a quick glance at Dobbin, who appeared genuinely shaken by what he’d just seen.
Neither Syltling needed to be reminded of what awaited them should they fall into Roach custody again.
Unsurprisingly, Bellows did not appear to be holding onto the grudge. Less than ten minutes into the new tunnel, he produced a mangled fish wrapped in butchers’ paper from somewhere inside his cloak
. The smell of smoked trout escaped, mixing with the man’s own questionable odour and the stagnant reek of the city drain.
“Wanna wee smokie?” he asked, turning to Dobbin.
The youngster twisted his face into a grimace, waving the offering away with an open palm.
Unperturbed, Bellows looked over Dobbin’s shoulder. “What about ye? They dinna come nay fresha!”
Hopskotch shook his head, queasy at the thought of eating something that had been inside Bellows’ cloak. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable in the confines of the tunnel, which seemed to be getting narrower with every waterlogged step. Twice already, he’d bumped his head, and his neck and shoulders were beginning to cramp from walking chin to chest.
“Thanks, err, Bellows,” Hopskotch replied politely, remembering only at the last minute not to call the man Blackpaw. “Um, wherever it is we’re going, how much further do you think it might be?”
Bellows appeared utterly disinterested in Hopskotch’s question, his attention given over to the smokie in his hand. He rolled the fish around in his palm, contemplating it with a hungry expression upon his face. Then, as if changing his mind, the hobo returned the trout to a hidden pocket in his cloak.
Hopskotch shuddered to think what else might be tucked away in there.
“Dinna worry, hatchlings,” replied Bellows, punctuating with another clap of the palms. “I’ll have ye topside in no time. Just gotta pick up some odds ’n’ ends and you’ll be breathing the sweet lake air in tway shakes!”
Hopskotch was relieved to hear their guide actually knew where they were headed.
“Funny story, that, ’bout yer wayward Grandpapa. But I ’ready figured where yer headed all kitted up like that.”
Dobbin turned to Hopskotch, a look of fear and concern etched across his face.