Barkbelly Page 16

  “Sit down,” said the tinker. “Make yourself at home.” He filled the kettle from a pail by the door and took it to the stove. “The name's Figgis. What do they call you?”

  “Barkbelly.”

  “Do they, now? That's a grand name!” He opened the cupboard and brought out a large berry cake. “Made it myself.”

  The tinker started to cut thick slices, and as he did, Barkbelly caught hold of his arm.

  “You're wooden!”

  “I am,” said Figgis. “But so are you. So what are you saying?”

  “You're a man!”

  “I was the last time I looked, yes. And you're worrying me now.”

  “I've never seen a wooden man before.”

  Figgis sat down and stared hard at Barkbelly. “And how can that be? On an island full of wooden people?”

  “It's a long story,” said Barkbelly.

  “I have long ears,” said Figgis.

  “You wouldn't want to hear it.”

  “I would. But only with a pot of tea on the table before me, so wait there while I fetch it.”

  He made the tea and brought two cups. Buttered the cake and found two plates. Pulled up his chair and settled himself comfortably on it.

  “Now,” he said, “begin.”

  So Barkbelly told his story. Pumbleditch, Tythingtown, the circus, the Hope … Figgis listened like a child. When it was over, he could barely speak.

  “Ah… well!” he said. “So! That's … That's a fine old tale! It is! And do you know what I like best about it? It's not over yet. There's still your family to find.”

  “That's true,” said Barkbelly. “But I don't know how I'll find them. I don't know who they are.”

  “Give me your hand.”

  “Eh?”

  “Give me your hand. No, not like that.” He held his hand up in the air, with its palm facing Barkbelly. “Like this.”

  Barkbelly copied him and Figgis brought his hand forward till their fingers touched. Barkbelly gasped. His fingers were tingling. It was a strange sensation: neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but both at once. A bit like he imagined nettle stings to be.

  Suddenly Figgis broke contact and peered at Barkbelly's hand. “You're not a Figgis,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at your hand,” said Figgis.

  Barkbelly looked. The wood-grain patterns on his palm were glowing. The faint tracery of lines had become an unmistakable map, bold with swirls and flourishes.

  “Now look at mine. What do you see?”

  “The same,” said Barkbelly. “All the lines and markings are standing out, like someone's just painted them on.”

  “And what color has the painter used?”

  Barkbelly peered closer. “Golden brown.”

  “Exactly,” said Figgis. “But if you were a Figgis, like me, it would be green.”

  “So I'm not one of your family?”

  “More than that. You're not one of my clan.”

  “I don't understand,” said Barkbelly.

  “I wouldn't expect you to,” said Figgis, “you being a stranger an' all! It takes a bit of explaining. Would you like me to try?”

  Barkbelly nodded.

  “Well now,” said Figgis, “let's see…. Long, long ago, the Ancients were born. They came out of the earth and they grew tall and then they mated. Now, because there were nine Ancients, one of them was left out when it came to pairing up, and that caused all kinds of complications, as you can imagine! But they sorted it out in the end, to everyone's relief. Anyway, what I'm saying is this: every Ashenpeaker is descended from one of those nine Ancients. So there are nine clans. Everyone who is descended from Fig—like me—is in the Figgis clan. Everyone who is descended from Pel is in the Pellan clan and so on. Now, we know you're not a Figgis, so you must belong to one of the other eight.”

  “And you can tell what clan someone is in by the pattern on their hand?”

  “Yes,” said Figgis. “There are nine different patterns, one for each clan.”

  “I have a question,” said Barkbelly. “You say that everyone is descended from one Ancient, but surely everyone is descended from two, mother and father. So why is there just one pattern on your hand, when there should be two?”

  “That is a brilliant question,” said Figgis, “and a tricky one to answer. Think of it like this. Imagine the sky. Imagine the sun is shining in the sky. You can see it. But then, a cloud comes along and covers it. Where is the sun now?”

  “It's still there,” said Barkbelly. “Behind the cloud.”

  “Exactly. It's still there. Strong as ever. You just can't see it. Well, it's the same with the patterns. The mark of one Ancient will cover the mark of another, just like the cloud covering the sun. So even though the descendants had the markings of two Ancients, only one showed on their hands. And it was all fairly done. Fig's pattern covered Pel's, but Pel's covered Kip's. Do you see what I mean? That's how all nine patterns survived.”

  Barkbelly thought for a moment. “So if a… Figgis marries a … Pellan… and they have a baby… the baby is a… Figgis! Right?”

  “No.”

  “No? But it must be! Fig covers Pel—you said so!”

  Figgis shook his head. “You're right, in theory, but…Ah, this is where it gets complicated! The Ancients had children. And those children had children. For hundreds—no— thousands of years, people were marrying between the clans and having children. But then a strange thing happened: eggs stopped hatching. Funnily enough, it wasn't every egg. If an egg had parents from the same clan, it was fine. It hatched. But if an egg had a father from one clan and a mother from another, it wouldn't hatch. No one knew why. It was like a plague. It came in the night, it spread across the land and it's never gone away. So now, if you want to have children, you must marry someone from your own clan.”

  “That's terrible,” said Barkbelly.

  “Yes, it is,” said Figgis. “But it makes your job so much easier.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you will only have to consider people from one clan. Think about it! If you're, say, a Kippan, then your mother and your father will both be Kippans. Your grandparents will be Kippans. Your brothers and sisters will be Kippans. So already, you can forget about—”

  “Everyone from the other eight clans!”

  Figgis grinned. “You've got it!” he said. “Now, will you put that kettle on again? I've got to go.” And with that, he disappeared into the garden.

  Barkbelly refilled the kettle and set it to boil. Figgis had given him so much to think about! There was just one thing….

  “Figgis,” he said when the tinker returned, buttoning his britches, “how can I find my family when I don't know their name?”

  “You can't.”

  Barkbelly froze. Suddenly the roof was lifting off the house…a huge hand was hovering in the sky above, holding a hammer… the hammer came down, smashing him to the ground.

  “I can't find my family?”

  “No,” said Figgis, making a second pot of tea. “But you can find your mother. And if you're lucky, she'll still be with the rest of your family.”

  Barkbelly slumped back into his chair. Figgis seemed to be talking in riddles.

  “I gave you a bit of a fright there, didn't I?” said the tinker. “Come on. Take a drop of tea.”

  Barkbelly picked up his cup and drank deeply. “How can I find my mother?” he said at last.

  “With your hand,” said Figgis. “You remember: if the pattern turns golden brown, it's someone from another clan. If it turns green, it's someone from the same clan. If it turns black, it's your mother.”

  “It's that simple?”

  Figgis nodded.

  “Blimey.”

  Chapter 47

  arkbelly awoke to the clatter of pans and the smell of porridge.

  “Breakfast's ready!” said Figgis, ladling great dollops of porridge into two bowls. “Honey or sugar?”

  “Honey, pl
ease.”

  Figgis fetched an earthenware pot from the cupboard. “From my own bees,” he said, holding it like a trophy. “You won't taste finer.” He opened the pot and a rich clover scent filled the room. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I don't know,” said Barkbelly, joining him at the table. “I had strange dreams and I still feel tired. But I'll wake up when I start walking, I'm sure.”

  “So you're traveling on?”

  “Yes, I am. Do you mind? I'd love to stay, really I would. There's so much more I'd like to know. But I have to go.”

  “Of course you do,” said Figgis. “You're a born adventurer, I can tell. Not like me! I go into town to sell my pots and pans and that's far enough! I like a chair and a kettle and a comfy bed.”

  “There's just one more thing I'd like to know,” said Barkbelly, “before I go.”

  “Oh, don't start me off again! I will talk till my tongue wears out if you let me.”

  “No—it's just a little thing. Is everyone in your clan called Figgis?”

  “No. That would be too confusing! I am called Figgis because at school I was the only Figgis. So that was what they called me and it stuck.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Barkbelly. “I was just wondering.”

  “Of course you were. And that's what I like about you. You have a sense of wonder. Some people look, but they don't see. And they listen, but they don't hear. And they accept everything without question. But for you there will always be a why. And a when and a where and a what and a who! But it's the why that is special. When you're tired, it will carry you on its back. When you're hungry, it will sit in your stomach. When you're lost, it will shine in the dark like a lamp. It will take you as far as you need to go…. Would you like some sandwiches to take with you?”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you.”

  And so, armed with cheese and chutney sandwiches, Barkbelly continued on his way. Figgis waved him off and wished him well, and when Barkbelly promised to return, he truly hoped he would.

  “If all Ashenpeakers are as fine as Figgis, this will be easy,” he said to himself as he returned to the dark of the forest.

  But they weren't. And it wasn't.

  Chapter 48

  he first thing that Barkbelly noticed when he finally cleared the forest wasn't the river or the road or the whispering fields of corn. It was the farmhouse. The low, red- roofed farmhouse with the coughing chimney. Just the sight of it refreshed him, and with a smile on his face, he headed straight for it.

  But he didn't reach it. A man came out into the yard and shouted something he couldn't hear, and three enormous dogs sprang out of nowhere and started running toward him. Barkbelly froze. He had no idea what to do. They were covering the ground faster than he could think. Surely they weren't going to—

  “Ai-eee!”

  The dogs sprang at him like a three-headed monster and knocked him clean off his feet. Suddenly he was writhing on the ground with the beasts on top of him: a frenzy of fur and flesh and belly and paw and tongue and breath and snout and jaw. They snapped and snarled. Shook him like a sheep. Sank their teeth into him. He had a dog on each arm and one on his leg, clinging like leeches. Yet there was no pain, just shock and disbelief. Why had the man set them on him? Why? He was doing nothing wrong.

  And with that thought, shock turned to anger. He filled his lungs. Clenched his fists. Gathered his strength. Tensed his muscles. Kicked as hard as he had ever kicked anything. Boof! The first dog flew through the air and landed like a sack of potatoes. Barkbelly scrabbled to his feet. Oof! He punched out his arm—the second dog arced across the sky and thumped down with a terrified yelp. Oof! He punched again and the third dog skimmed the grass, hit a fence and fell in a crumpled heap.

  “Come on!” he shouted, beckoning the dogs closer. “Come on, ya scabby mutts. What ya waitin' for?”

  The dogs stared at him, their mouths gaping like wounds as they panted through their pain. He took a step toward one; it lowered its head and slowly backed away to a safe distance, watching Barkbelly out of the corner of its yellow eye. Then it ran off with its tail between its legs and the other two followed.

  “Scaredy cats,” snorted Barkbelly, and he walked on.

  Barkbelly fared no better at the next farm. The farmer didn't set dogs on him, but he did threaten him. At the third farm, the farmer's wife threw stones and encouraged her children to do likewise.

  But just when he was giving up hope of ever finding a warm welcome, he met Tansy Furlow.

  When Barkbelly first saw her, she was in her garden, unfolding an enormous piece of blue cloth. She noticed him passing by and smiled. The cloth had a golden crab sewn on it: a mighty creature, with pincers big enough to catch a boy. And as Barkbelly watched, the woman opened a box, took out a silver star and pinned it between the crab's claws.

  “There,” she said. “I think that's straight.” She reached for her sewing box. “There's fresh lemonade on the porch if you'd like some,” she said, threading a needle. “You can keep me company while I sew.”

  Barkbelly poured himself a glass and joined her in the garden. Soon they were chatting like old friends, and when Tansy discovered he was a stranger to the island, she explained her work.

  “Ashenpeakers like flags,” she said. “The clans have flags, families have flags… towns, villages… they all have them! And they can be quite fancy. People don't want stripes, they want symbols. Suns, moons, half-moons, leaves, shells, stars…I do them all. Finished!” She cut the end of the thread, put her needle back into the sewing box and started to fold the flag. “I make a living. Not a good one, but it's enough. No one's rich on Ashenpeake. Even the farmers are struggling to survive. You wouldn't believe it, but…”

  Tansy talked on. Barkbelly wasn't really listening. He was happy just to hear the sound of her voice. It cuddled him. Comforted him. He had no desire to leave. This felt like home.

  No. She couldn't be.

  He stared at her. She looked old enough. Her skin was exactly the same shade. He looked at Tansy's hair… eyes… how tall she was. He was getting light-headed; he was forgetting to breathe. That voice… that smile…

  “What clan are you?” he said suddenly.

  Tansy paused in midfold and looked at him. “Eddar,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don't know what clan I belong to.”

  “Oh, you poor lost thing!” cried Tansy, and she dropped the flag, hurried over and hugged him. “Let's find out.” She held up her hand.

  Barkbelly took a deep breath and held out his own.

  The tingles rippled up his arm. He looked at Tansy. She had closed her eyes. She was smiling. But then she pulled her hand away and said, “You're not an Eddar.”

  “No,” said Barkbelly, staring at his brown palm. Suddenly he could hear Rubek's voice in his head: This is not story. This is not book. It will not end happily ever after for some people. Maybe not even for you.

  And now it seemed that Rubek was right.

  Chapter 49

  ansy was worried about her visitor. Barkbelly had barely spoken since the business with the hands. She had taken him inside and made him supper. She had offered him a bed for the night and he had accepted. But he was quiet. Too quiet for a boy his age.

  “It doesn't matter, you know—not being an Eddar,” she said. “Each of the clans is as good as any other.”

  “I know,” said Barkbelly, and he screwed up his face to dam the tears. But it didn't work. His shoulders started to heave and with a great snort they came: fat, salty tears that ran off the end of his nose and splashed onto the table. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I hate doing this. I'm such a cry- baby!”

  “Don't you worry about that,” said Tansy. “You just let it all out. And when you're finished, you can tell me what's the matter. If you want to, that is.”

  Barkbelly did want to. He told her everything and felt a lot better for it.

  “It's going to be so hard,” he said, “finding my family, when people are so hos
tile. I can't even say hello.”

  “They're not hostile—they're frightened,” said Tansy. “Slave traders were sniffing around last week.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, yes. My neighbor saw them. A whole gang of them, heading east. She said they had a cart laden with crates.”

  “But I was on my own,” said Barkbelly. “And look at me: do I really look like a slaver? I'm just a boy. And I'm wooden!”

  “Well, the slavers do use boys as scouts. And as for being wooden… I'm ashamed to say that some of the slavers are wooden too. People are scared. You can understand that, can't you? They're not trusting anyone at the moment.”

  “You trusted me.”

  “I don't have any eggs.”

  A terrible silence crept into the room. Tansy started fiddling with a teaspoon. Her face was as bleak as the fields in winter.

  “I married a Kippan,” she said at last. “So there were no children.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Dead.”

  Barkbelly wished he hadn't asked.

  “He died in a house fire.”

  “Really?”

  Tansy gave him a strange look and he wished he hadn't sounded quite so interested. But he longed to know more. This was something he had meant to ask Figgis. How do Ashenpeakers die? And when? Well, now he knew some- thing—fire was deadly, just as he had suspected. Oh, he wished he could ask Tansy more! But, looking at her stricken face, he couldn't. He changed the subject.

  “What really worries me is the size of the island,” he said. “I don't know where to begin looking. My family could be anywhere.”

  “That's true. But they are most likely to be on the southern peninsula.”

  To Barkbelly's relief, she seemed to be brightening. She pulled open a drawer in the kitchen table, brought out a pencil and paper and started to draw.

  “This is the island,” she said. “We are here.” She made a mark in the middle of the island, toward the top. “Here is Ashenpeake itself.” She marked the mountain, midway up the west coast. “And here is Kessel.”