Barkbelly Read online

  “He needs to go to school,” she told herself one day. “He'll soon learn that he has to bend a little if he wants to get on with people. The other lads will teach him that—if they accept him.” She frowned. “It's that tall lad he'll have to please, Fish Patterson. All the other boys follow him like sheep. They'll be in the same class. But there's nothing I can do. Bark will have to take care of himself. I can't hold his hand. He isn't a baby!”

  But he was a baby in so many ways, and Pumpkin knew it. For all his size and strength, Barkbelly was completely un- worldly. He knew the cottage and the garden. He had ventured a little way into Ferny Wood. But he had never been into the village and he hadn't played with any children. Sometimes they called to him from the gate, but he never replied. He wasn't shy; he simply wasn't interested. He was so happily absorbed in his own games, he didn't need company.

  Pumpkin felt like a pigeon, pushing her chick out of the nest before it was ready to fly. But she knew she had to do it. Barkbelly had to learn about life.

  And so, when Barkbelly was ten weeks old, Pumpkin sent him to school.

  Barkbelly stood by the teacher's desk and stared boldly at his new classmates. Big ones, tall ones, fat ones, small ones….

  There were all kinds, but no one was wooden. And no one was smiling. Except Miss Dillwater, who was introducing him. She was a brisk young woman with a long snake of hair coiled on the back of her head.

  “This is Barkbelly,” she said, “as I'm sure you all know.” She put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “He will be joining our class starting today, so I want you all to be nice to him.” She paused just long enough to take a breath, but Barkbelly felt she was looking at the extraordinarily pretty girl in the front row. The one with the silver curls and the dark, mischievous eyes. “Make him feel welcome. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Miss Dillwater,” said the class.

  “Good.” She glanced at the wall clock. “It's a little early, but I think we can have break now. You can use the extra minutes to get to know your new friend. Ring the bell, Sweet Pea.”

  A haughty girl with shiny shoes picked up the bell and left the room. Soon a deafening clang rattled the schoolhouse windows. Chairs scraped, desks slammed, boots thudded and doors banged. Play began.

  Outside in the playground, Barkbelly found himself surrounded by curious classmates. Candy Pie, the one with the silver curls, elbowed her way to the front. Her two best friends flanked her: Pillow Anderson, a pale girl with pink ribbons, and Sweet Pea Nicholson, the girl who had rung the bell. All three of them peered shamelessly at him, studying his bare legs and hands. Then Candy Pie leaned forward and touched him. Her eyes widened. She fingered his wooden curls. Then she rapped him hard on the cheek with her knuckles.

  “So, Barkbrain,” she said, “are you wooden all over?”

  “Yes,” said Barkbelly.

  Candy Pie smiled. “Really? You're wooden all over?”

  Her girlfriends giggled. Barkbelly frowned, and glared at her.

  Candy Pie's dark eyes were challenging and defiant. Barkbelly was speechless. Someone started sniggering.

  Then the ring was jostled from behind and Fish Patterson burst through, followed by Moth Williams, Log Worthing and Dipper Dean.

  “Oi,” said Fish, pointing his finger accusingly at Candy Pie. “I hope you're not threatening him.”

  “What if I am?” snapped Candy. She knocked his finger away. “What's it to you?”

  “Boys first,” said Fish.

  Candy's eyes narrowed.

  “You know the rules,” said Dipper. He was right behind her.

  Candy wavered. Fish Patterson wouldn't hit a girl but Dipper Dean would. “Have him,” she said at last. “With my blessing. I have real friends. I don't need to play with puppets.” She linked arms with Pillow and Sweet Pea and they flounced off.

  Fish moved closer to Barkbelly. “So, new boy, what's the answer?”

  Barkbelly studied Fish. He was tall and scrawny, but he looked like he could fight if he wanted to. “I don't understand,” he said.

  “The girl asked you a question,” said Fish. “But we never heard your answer. Are you wooden all over?”

  Dipper Dean sniggered.

  “Yes,” said Barkbelly warily. “I'm exactly the same as you.”

  “Ah, but you're not the same, are you?” said Fish. He stroked Barkbelly's wooden arm with a mucky finger.

  “I am!” said Barkbelly defiantly. “But where you have flesh, I have wood.”

  “Well, that's not the same, is it?” Fish started to circle him.

  “Do you bleed?”

  “Don't know.”

  “Do you break?”

  “Don't know.”

  “Do you feel pain?”

  “No.”

  “Then you won't feel this,” hissed Dipper Dean, and he pushed Barkbelly to the ground and started kicking him.

  Barkbelly was bewildered. Instinct closed his eyes and curled him up into a ball, but it couldn't close his ears. Shouts and jeers hammered him like fists: four, five, six voices or more. And there was more than one pair of boots kicking him, he could tell. Kick followed kick in a volley of violence.

  But Barkbelly wasn't hurting. Suddenly he realized they could kick him all day and he would be just as strong as when they started. They would be the ones going home with bruises. But his clothes… his fine new clothes! His smart jacket and his best britches… muddied and torn! His new boots…his new, shiny, grown-up boots… scuffed and grimed! Mama had taken money from the savings pot to buy them. Hard-earned money.

  Barkbelly exploded into a flurry of fists and feet. He grabbed Dipper Dean by the ankles, pulled him down and thumped him. He thumped him again. He pulled his hair. He squashed his nose into his face. He twisted his ears. Dipper called for help. Log Worthing tried to pin Barkbelly's arms from behind; Barkbelly elbowed him in the guts. Moth Williams grabbed a leg; Barkbelly booted him away with the other one. Dipper was yelling now; Barkbelly was on top of him, pinning him down. Barkbelly's knees were burrowing into the tender flesh of his upper arms.

  “You were right,” snarled Barkbelly. “I am not the same as you. I am stronger than you will ever be. I will not break. I will not bleed. And do you want to know something else? I will not cry. So you can call me all the names you want. You will not hurt me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” replied Dipper through clenched teeth.

  “I didn't hear you.”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you give in?”

  Dipper squirmed. Barkbelly dug his knees in even harder.

  “Do you give in?”

  “Yes! Yes! Flamin' yes!”

  Barkbelly felt his heart somersault inside him. “Good,” he said, and rolled off.

  Dipper groaned. He tried to sit up, but it felt as if he had been run over by a tractor.

  “Do you know how to play Bull Run?” Fish Patterson was leaning against the playground wall. He hadn't been involved in the fight at all.

  Barkbelly grunted. “What?”

  “Do you know how to play Bull Run?”

  Barkbelly shook his head. “No. I don't.”

  “Then I'll teach you,” said Fish. “You can't be in the gang if you don't know how to play.”

  Barkbelly stared at him. “You want me to be in your gang?”

  “Yeah. If you're not in my gang, you'll be in Tie Donahue's, and that would be infinitely worse,” said Fish. “You can fight. I want you with me, not against me.”

  “And why would I want to be in your gang?”

  “It's the best,” said Fish, grinning.

  Barkbelly didn't want to ask, but he had to know. “What would I have to do to join?”

  “Nothing,” said Fish. “You've done it already. Dipper has the bruises to prove it.”

  Dipper grunted and rubbed his ribs.

  “So—what do you say? Are you in?”

  Barkbelly shook his head in amazement. What a strange world it was. “Yes,” he
said at last. “I'm in.”

  Chapter 4

  arkbelly swallowed the last mouthful of sausage roll and wiped his hands on his britches. He wished he could have another, but he wasn't allowed. His mother had banned him from the kitchen. It was the first day of spring and the Gantrys were throwing a Blossom Party. Pumpkin wanted the food to be perfect but Barkbelly kept dipping his finger into the bowls. No wonder she wanted him outside.

  Barkbelly found his father sitting in the back garden, sharpening an ax. An untidy pile of logs and branches sprawled on the ground at his feet.

  “I'll split the logs,” said Gable, “but you can help with the branches. If we saw them down a bit, we can build a bonfire for tonight. I'll saw, you hold. It won't take long.”

  It didn't. Twenty minutes later, all the branches had been sawed and the bonfire had been built. Only the logs remained. They had been sawed already, but they were too bulky to fit into the kitchen stove. They needed splitting.

  “I'll do these,” said Gable. “You go inside. Start getting cleaned up.” He picked up a log and stood it on the chopping block. Then he took up his ax, swung it in the air and— smack!—the blade thumped down onto the log, splitting it into four clean pieces. Gable winced with pain.

  “Are you all right, Papa?”

  “Aye, I'm fine,” said Gable heavily. “It's just a bit of an ache. You can't work all day and not feel an ache or two. Not at my age!” He bent down slowly and picked up another log.

  “Let me help,” said Barkbelly. “If I feed you the logs, you won't have to bend down.”

  Gable leaned on his ax. “I suppose it makes sense,” he said at last. “It would save my old bones.”

  So they started. Barkbelly knelt at Gable's feet, and as soon as a log was split, he put another one onto the chopping block. Father and son made a good team. They soon settled into an easy rhythm and the pile of logs shrank rapidly. Barkbelly felt incredibly happy. How could he feel otherwise? It was a gloriously sunny day, he was helping his father, they were having fireworks later… and there was a fox behind the apple tree! He could see it out of the corner of his eye. It was eating something.

  And before Barkbelly knew what he was doing, he was turning his head to look, and he didn't pull his hands away, and the old man was getting tired, and he didn't see and— smack!—the ax chopped Barkbelly's hand right off! It shot through the air and landed in the wood basket.

  “Ohhh!” cried Barkbelly. “Ohhh! My hand! Papa! My hand!”

  Gable dropped the ax and looked down in horror. “Ohhh! Blessed monkeys!” he cried. “What have I done? What have I done? Oh, my poor boy!” He sank to his knees and took Barkbelly into his arms. “Oh, I'm a stupid old man! A stupid old man! You should never have been doing that! Oh! Oh!”

  He hugged Barkbelly so tight, the boy could barely breathe.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked. “Son! Are you in pain?”

  “No,” said Barkbelly. “No. No pain.” But he did feel faint. His chest started to heave. He thought he would cry, but no tears came.

  “What's to be done?” cried Gable. “What's to be done? Oh, I'm a stupid old man!” He rocked Barkbelly like a baby, back and forth.

  “Papa,” said Barkbelly, “look.”

  But Gable wasn't listening. His mind was whirring like beetle wings. “What's to be done?” he said again. “What's to be done? Think. Think!”

  “Papa!” said Barkbelly urgently, pulling himself free. “Papa! Look!”

  Gable looked. Barkbelly was holding up the stump of his arm. It was oozing a strange white sap. But it was also vibrating—so fast, it showed only as a shimmer over the cut surface.

  “Is that hurting?” whispered Gable.

  “No,” said Barkbelly. “It's tingling. Oh!”

  “What's … Oh, my!”

  The hand was growing back. As they watched, the stump seemed to stretch and four knobbly bits appeared at the end. From these new knuckles grew four new fingers. Then a fifth knobble appeared on the side of the hand and out came a new thumb. From beginning to end it had taken barely two minutes, but the new hand was perfect. Barkbelly wiggled his fingers. They all worked. No one would ever guess it wasn't the hand he was born with.

  “I can't believe it,” said Gable. “I saw it with my own eyes, but still I can't believe it. What an extraordinary thing!”

  “Where's my old hand?” said Barkbelly, suddenly remembering. “I think I saw it go into the wood basket.”

  They tipped out the logs, but the hand wasn't in there. They searched the ground, moved every log, but it had vanished.

  “How will I explain this to your mother?” said Gable. “First you have a hand—then you don't—then you do—and then we lose one altogether! Oh, she is going to be devilish annoyed with me. I should never have let you help in the first place. It's all my fault.”

  “Do we have to tell her?” said Barkbelly. “She would be so upset. The hand has grown back. She need never know.”

  Gable shook his head. “I don't like keeping secrets and that's a fact. But I don't like hurting your mother either. And today, well…it's a special day. I can't tell you how much she loves her Blossom Parties! Every year I say to her, ‘We'll just have a few friends round this time,' and before I know it, she's invited the whole village, planned the food and ordered the fireworks! She was up before the cockerel this morning, ready to start baking. Couldn't sleep, she was that excited. Something like this would ruin her day. Really, it would.”

  “So we'll keep it quiet, then?” said Barkbelly.

  “Aye,” Gable agreed. “We'll keep it quiet. Then we can have the best party that Pumbleditch has ever seen!”

  And they did. That night, the sky was aflame with fire- works. The air was sweet with song. The ground rumbled with the tumble of dancing feet and every plate was licked clean. And the secret was kept between them, like a leaf pressed in the pages of a book.

  Chapter 5

  arkbelly lay in bed, listening. It was the middle of the night, but something was happening outside. He peered out of the window. It was dark. Heavy clouds were hiding the moon. But he could see shapes. Huge creatures pulling long covered wagons. Figures walking beside them, muffled and caped. Lights flickering and swaying like smugglers' lamps. A magical, silent, otherworldly procession was disappearing into the darkness, heading for the village. Carmenero's Circus had arrived.

  On his way to school, Barkbelly saw the camp. It was on Farmer Gubbin's land. There were dozens of painted wagons with golden tassels that swung in the breeze. There were animal cages with glistening silver bars and ornate roofs. There were elephants, ankle-tethered with golden chains. There were campfires with steaming kettles and pans of porridge slung over the flames. And there were people—wild, exotic circus folk with embroidered waistcoats and extravagant cloaks. Women with pinned-up hair and easy smiles. Men with dark eyes and gray chins. Children in hand-me-down costumes with un- washed faces and hands full of toasted buns.

  Barkbelly was speechless with the wonder of it all.

  * * *

  By evening, the circus was ready to open. Barkbelly left the cottage at dusk and cut through the orchard toward Farmer Gubbin's land. A low mist was rising. The air was still and curiously charged. He walked on, his heart drumming with excitement. And when he emerged from the shadow of the trees and saw the massive Stardust Palace rising from the mist like an Eastern temple, he caught his breath and bit his lip. It was too wonderful for words. As he walked through the long grass, his legs grew damp and sticky with seeds, but he didn't notice. He was looking at the lanterns, bright as beads, strung between the wagons. He could hear the hum of the crowd, the roar of a lion, the crack of a whip.

  As he drew closer, he could smell cotton candy and hot honeyed nuts. Sausages. Soap. Wood smoke. Tobacco smoke. Sharp, sulfurous gun smoke!

  Barkbelly was lost in a joyous, bewildering chaos of color and sensation. His fingers closed round the money in his pocket. Three precious coins that would buy
a ticket into the heart of this paradise.

  “There y'are, Bark!” cried Fish Patterson, emerging from the crowd with his gang dancing behind him. “Where've you been? We were starting to think you weren't coming! What've you been doing?”

  “Just looking,” said Barkbelly, and they all nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.

  “Let's buy our tickets,” said Moth. “Then we can be ready to get the best seats when they start letting people in.”

  Half an hour later, Barkbelly was sitting in a ringside seat, with the pink scent of his cotton candy mingling with the raw smell of sawdust. Above him, he saw the rigging for the trapeze artists: a riot of ropes, knots, ladders and platforms. At the back of the ring there was a velvet curtain: midnight blue with golden tassels. Two circus girls stood nearby, waiting to open and close it: long-limbed beauties with painted faces and curled hair. Just above the curtain was a carved wooden platform with lanterns dangling from it. They jiggled as the musicians climbed on. And what a raggle-taggle band they were! Mismatched costumes with a scrap of velvet here and a bit of brocade there; silver buttons and feathered caps; waxed mustaches and clipped beards. Barkbelly thought they were fantastic.

  Suddenly the lamps hanging round the tent were being turned down. The audience was settling. The band was playing. The beautiful girls were pulling the curtain aside…and out came a pig! A giant curly-coated pig, ridden by a monkey in a shiny top hat. The pig tore round the ring, then skidded to a halt, spun round and round, and reared up on its back legs. The monkey took off its hat and waved. The audience gasped, but there was no time for anyone to catch their breath because the curtain was whisked aside again and in raced a dozen more pigs! The ring was full of snorts and snouts and trotters and tails. Sawdust swirled at their feet; sweat beads flew like crystal flies. The musicians played louder and faster, while the platform swayed and shuddered beneath them.

  The crowd hollered in a frenzy of excitement and then— crash!—the mighty cymbals rang, the pigs trotted out and, to the sound of a single violin, a young girl entered the ring. She curtsied and smiled—and everyone fell in love with her. She was exquisite: as perfect as a dewdrop. A single rope ladder fell from above and she began to climb up, up, up toward the dark roof of the tent, where lanterns shone like stars in heaven. Once she reached the top, she climbed onto a tiny platform and pirouetted, while everyone below stomped and cheered. Then she started dancing across a silver tightrope that ran between the tent poles.