Barkbelly Page 9

  And it was. It was blazing like a torch. Flames feasted on the wooden flesh. Sparks flew like fairies. Coat Collins was shouting for someone to do something. Apron Browning was wailing. The crowd was horrified at this new tragedy thrown upon their young hero.

  But Barkbelly just grinned and shook his hand violently in the air, killing the flames. “I'm all right!” he cried. “I'm all right!”

  “But you're not all right,” snorted Apron, taking hold of his hand and examining it. “It's gone!”

  People craned their necks for a better look. It was true! The little finger on Barkbelly's left hand was completely burned away. There wasn't even a stump—just a smoldering patch where the finger should be.

  “But it's all right!” Barkbelly insisted. “Really! This has happened before. Last time it was the whole hand! It will grow back. Believe me! It will. Watch!”

  He held his hand up in the air and they all watched. And waited. And watched. And waited.

  “Nothing's happening,” said a disappointed voice somewhere in the crowd.

  “Shhh!” hissed Wick. “Be patient! It will start soon.”

  But it didn't. Barkbelly stared at his hand, willing it to grow, but nothing happened. And there in the factory yard, fear found him, just as surely as it had found him in the playground when Little Pan Evans lay dead at his feet. He felt his belly tightening, his heart fluttering in his chest. He felt hot, then cold. Giddy. Sick. His legs were like tree trunks, rooting him to the ground.

  “Grow!” Barkbelly murmured. “Grow.”

  The crowd was jostling and pushing against him, confused, wanting a happy ending and not getting one.

  “Come on!” he growled. He grasped his wrist, urging the finger to renew itself. “Come on!”

  “It doesn't matter,” said Wick, taking him by the arm. “It doesn't matter.”

  “It matters to me!” cried Barkbelly. “It matters to me! Don't you see? It's not growing back! It's not growing back! I thought I was indestructible! That's why I ran in to save Miss Taffeta. I thought nothing could ever stop me. Nothing could ever hurt me or kill me. But look!” He waved his disfigured hand wildly in Wick's face. “Don't you see what this means? Fire can kill me. It can kill me. I thought I could never be destroyed.”

  Suddenly the crowd cheered ecstatically. The workers hadn't been listening to Barkbelly. They had turned to watch Taffeta, who was being helped to her feet by her proud father. This was better! This was a happy ending! And what's more, the press had arrived! A reporter and an illustrator from the Daily Truth! The reporter was firing questions at anyone and everyone. The illustrator was brandishing his pencil and sketchbook, drawing likenesses of Taffeta and her dog faster than a boy could wipe his nose.

  Wick could see that his friend was reeling with shock. It was as if the fire, the factory and his heroism meant nothing in the face of this dreadful truth. Wick wanted to take Barkbelly away, back to the bunkhouse, somewhere quiet.

  “There he is! Over there! There's the hero! Barkbelly!”

  The chant started again as the press turned to find the hero of the hour. Questions flew at him like arrows.

  “What's your full name, son?” asked the reporter. “What made you decide to go into the fire? Do you know Miss Taffeta well, then?”

  Barkbelly ignored him and turned to the illustrator. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I'm drawing you,” said the illustrator. “It's only a sketch.”

  “I hear you're not originally from this town. So where do

  you come from? Somewhere out in the country?” The reporter again. Why was he still there?

  Barkbelly grabbed hold of the illustrator. “Why are you drawing me? Why?”

  “To put in the paper, of course! You're a hero, Barkbelly! People will want to see you when they hear all about it!”

  “What people? How far does this newspaper go?”

  “All over the country, lad! All over! You'll be famous!”

  Run.

  “What did you say the name of your village was, son?”

  Run.

  “Why did you leave it? Nothing wrong, was there?”

  Run.

  “We can find out, you know….”

  And as Barkbelly felt his past catch up with him, he turned from the crowd and ran.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 23

  ain, rain, endless rain. It fell like footsteps and danced on the rocky ridge outside the cave. Barkbelly silently thanked fortune for it. It had washed away any tracks he had made during his escape. If only it could wash away all memory of him. But it couldn't. In Tythingtown, people would remember. For years to come, they would talk about him—over bread and jam in the factory canteen, over champagne and oysters in the Tything mansion. They would tell the story of the hero who ran away. The boy who had something to hide. The wooden one.

  He remembered running through the crowd of factory workers and pushing open the golden gates while Dogger protested. He remembered running through the town. It was market day and he had deliberately turned into the square to confuse his pursuers. He forced his way through the crowd, trying to maintain speed without attracting attention. He slipped on a fish head thrown from a stall. He banged his leg on a trestle as he skidded round a clutter of farmers' wives. He fell over a crate of ducks and knocked a sack of sugar from a baker's hands. The baker bellowed at him and waved a floury fist.

  He sprinted along the main road out of town and was amazed at how soon the gray became green. There was a terrace of cottages, one last tavern and then—nothing. Just frowning fields and skeletal trees.

  He ran for three days and nights. He barely stopped. He caught a few hours of sleep in a tumbledown barn but it was fitful, soured by the constant animal urge to flee. The miles melted into each other as he ran beyond the farms into the mountains beyond. The rain started on the first night, with a storm that rumbled in from the west. Bruising raindrops, drumming to the rhythm of his running.

  He found the cave on the fourth day. A waterlogged dawn was creeping over the mountains. Fingers of light touched trees, boulders, bushes. He was clawing his way over a rocky outcrop when he saw the cave mouth. It was a hard ten minutes' climb away, but it looked promising. At least it would be shelter from the rain.

  He scrabbled on, hauling himself upward. When he reached the cave, he sniffed the air suspiciously, alert to any lingering smell of bear or wolf. But there was nothing, and he soon discovered why. The cave was tiny. It didn't tunnel deep into the mountainside, as he had expected. It was no bigger than a room, and a small one at that. A kitchen, say.

  And with that thought—whoosh!—he was suddenly home. He could see the table laid for breakfast as usual: plates, cups and saucers, knives, forks and spoons. But it looked different somehow, and he couldn't think why. And there was Mama at the stove, stirring the porridge in her worn apron with the blue flowers. And there was Papa, coming in the door with logs under his arm. Rain was dripping off his hat—it was raining there too—and he was saying something to Mama, but Barkbelly couldn't hear the words. And suddenly Mama was turning round, and she had dark rings under her eyes and more wrinkles than he remembered. Papa did too. And as they sat down to breakfast, he saw that the table had been set with only two places. There was no place for him.

  He stepped outside again and the vision disappeared. The rain had stopped. Steam was rising in the thin sunlight, curling upward like the breath of a sleeping dragon. He gazed at the horizon and realized that was how far he had come. How much farther did he have to go? He was too tired to think.

  Reluctantly he returned to the dry blackness of the cave, curled up and slept. His sleep was thick and dreamless. It eased all the aches and strains that had wormed into his wooden body.

  He slept for a full day. When he awoke, it was raining again.

  Chapter 24

  arkbelly sat on the ridge outside the cave. He took another wild apple from the pile by his side and ate it, crunching the core and sw
allowing the seeds. His gaze traveled over the valley like a hawk. The rain had gone, leaving a shiny dampness, and there was a flight of geese arrowing across the sky, heading… East? West? He had no idea, but he longed to follow them. Overseas! That was where he needed to go! Somewhere safe. A new land, where he couldn't be recognized and tried for murder. That was why it had all gone wrong at the factory—he hadn't run far enough. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

  If I find the coast and follow it, eventually I'll come to a harbor. Perhaps I can find work as a sailor. Ships always needed crews— he had learned that at school. He was fit and strong, so why not? He wouldn't ask for wages—just free passage across the sea. He wouldn't even ask where the ship was bound.

  There was just one problem. Where was the sea? He had seen it on a map once, and it had looked unbelievably distant. Even now, halfway up a mountain, he couldn't see it on the horizon. So when he started walking, which direction should he choose?

  Follow the geese! They would be flying to the coast! Or would they? Geese flew to water, that was true, but any water seemed to suit them. They were always flying into Otterdown Mere back home and that was little more than a marsh. They might lead him in completely the wrong direction. But what other choice did he have?

  Barkbelly slid down the mountain and found a road. It was empty and desolate, but it looked safe enough. And surely it would lead to a village? A farm? With hope in his heart and hunger in his belly, he started down it.

  For the first few hours, his step was jaunty. He whistled as he walked. But as the day lengthened, he began to falter. The road was longer than he had imagined. It went on and on, with no end in sight, twisting and turning between two unbroken mountain ranges. Gaunt sheep gazed at him from the crags, their yellow eyes as bleak as the landscape. Sometimes he passed the remains of those that had lost the fight for survival. Broken-mouthed, they had fallen where they stood, watched by ravens that gathered like mourners at a funeral. When Barkbelly approached, the fleece-rippers didn't fly away. They stared at him with boot-black eyes and raucously demanded that he walk on. He did.

  On his third day of walking through the pass, Barkbelly realized that the mountain ranges on either side of the road were closing together like crab's claws. His stomach lurched.

  “I don't believe it!” he said, though no one was listening. “I've come so far and there's no way through!”

  Yet still he trudged on, wanting to believe there would be some kind of track ahead. And there was. Suddenly he saw it: a rough path, spiraling up into the mist. With luck, the mist would clear as he climbed. When he reached the peak, he would have a view of the horizon—and the sea.

  He started climbing with renewed vigor. He scuttled up the path like a spider. Stones clattered down the mountain behind him. His arms powered him on. His breath steamed like a genie. He was getting there.

  Finally the road leveled out and the mist started to clear. He caught his breath and strained to see something. But there was nothing. Nothing but bitter disappointment. He was on a plateau: a vast arena, ringed by stone, totally barren and desperately cold. No trees, no bushes—no hint of a horizon. For that, he would have to cross the plateau; judging the distance, he thought it would be a full day's trek.

  And that was when Barkbelly cried. For the first time in his life, he wept like the child he was. He sank to the ground, his shoulders started to heave and fat blue tears rolled down his wooden cheeks. He made no attempt to wipe them away. He simply let them fall. There was no one here to see them. And with that thought, the tears fell faster. He had never felt so alone. So lost. So small. So friendless.

  Cold despair covered him like snow, freezing him to the ground, blotting out any hope of a bright future. What more could he do? He had walked for days, without food, without company, without help of any kind. No one had been there to encourage him, to tell him he was doing the right thing, to hold him and say it would be all right in the end. No one had sung him to sleep at night or greeted him with a smile in the morning. He had seen no one for days—weeks? How long was it? He had no idea.

  He took a deep breath, clambered to his feet and tried to calm himself. There must be something here. There must be someone. He stood up, wiped his eyes on his sleeve and looked around. But still there was nothing. And suddenly he had a terrifying thought. What if I am the only person left alive in the world? What if there has been a terrible disaster and everyone's gone?

  He felt giddy just imagining it. He started to sway un- steadily. His mind groped for answers but found more questions instead. What if this is a different world? What if my world is back on the other side of the mountains? It could happen, some shift in time or space. What if I can't find the way back?

  His legs gave way underneath him. He sank to the ground again and curled up on the hard rock. He wrapped his arms tight round his knees and whimpered like a wounded animal. He had struggled on for days, but now it was over. He could do no more.

  He must have slept, because when he awoke it was dark. Not a clear, sharp darkness but a fuzzy, foggy blackness. The mist was so thick he couldn't see his own body. Now he couldn't move even if he wanted to. He was helpless. The terrors of the night could be all round him and he wouldn't even know.

  He sat completely still, listening for any sound of danger. Nothing. Minutes went by. He could feel the damp mist sinking into his wooden limbs. He listened on. Nothing. But then…He tensed. It wasn't a sound exactly. It was a movement. There were tremors in the earth. He could feel them. He listened hard. He could hear dull thuds somewhere in the distance. They were regular, like footfalls. And they were coming closer. Definitely coming closer.

  And now there was a new sound: the thump of his own terrified heart as it sensed something closing in. The terrors had found him. Long gray arms reached out toward him. They had no hands—just wet stumps. They prodded and probed. Slick and slimy, they nudged and nuzzled, spitting steam into the darkness. And then came a head. An enormous head with one eye loomed out of the mist. The eye examined him, while below, a dripping tongue tasted the air.

  I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to die. Oh, Mama, let it be quick. Painless. Please.

  But death never came. The great gray elephant harrumphed her recognition, lifted her massive head and trumpeted into the night. The other elephants joined her, and the plateau echoed with the bellow of their welcome and the clanking of their ankle rings.

  Barkbelly opened his eyes and saw a light. A single light was swaying through the fog: a lantern on the side of a wagon. And suddenly he could hear the muffled rumble of wheels and the wagon emerged from the gloom. It had flowers painted on the front. Wet tassels dripped at each corner. There was a wagoner in a wide-brimmed hat and a coat with the collar turned up against the drizzle. Beside him was a young girl, swathed in a long black cloak, with a worn leather hat pulled down low over her face. Two silver braids were hanging damply beneath it.

  It was Candy Pie.

  Chapter 25

  nd so Barkbelly was saved by the circus. The wagoner (who turned out to be the strong man, Anvil Allsop) reached down and in a single movement lifted Barkbelly high onto the seat beside him. And there Barkbelly sat for the rest of the night, draped in a blanket, while Carmenero's Circus trundled on.

  As dawn broke, the circus finally descended the mountains. Ahead, Barkbelly could see Appleforth, the next village on the tour, still asleep on the plain. But as the circus rolled up the main street, curtains twitched, bleary faces were pressed against windows and unwashed children came running like rabbits to gaze at the new arrivals.

  The circus meandered to the village green. Soon the camp- fires were lit and the kettles were singing. Barkbelly sat with Candy and her mother, Peaches. Everyone seemed to remember him. The men slapped him on his back and said it was good to see him again. The women kissed him and handed him cinnamon buns, syrup pancakes, hot chocolate. Jewel the storyteller gave him dry clothes. Gossamer the wire-walker winked at him. Even the great Car
menero shook his hand and asked if there was anything he needed. Barkbelly told him there wasn't. He had absolutely everything he needed and so much more.

  No one asked him why he had been wandering so far from home. Not even Candy. She had learned that the circus was not a place where questions were asked. But she did want to hear about the village.

  “Bark,” she said, pawing his arm excitedly. “Tell me what's been going on.”

  And suddenly—whoosh!—Barkbelly was back in the playground.

  “Don't you know?” he said, though he wondered how he'd managed to speak.

  “No! Of course I don't! I haven't been back,” she said. “And I am dying for news. So tell me!”

  So Barkbelly told her. Not about Little Pan Evans. Not that. But he did tell her about the babies born and the coffins carried. He told her about the summer fête and the village picnic. He told her about the drama at the harvest fair, when one of the fireworks had shot down the chimney into Freckle Flannagan's house and exploded, shattering all the windows. He told her how Farmer Bunkum had caught Fish Patterson stealing apples in his orchard and given him such a thrashing that Fish had sworn revenge. And later that night, Fish had crept into the farmer's cider house, opened up the cider flagons and peed into every one. The very next week, Farmer Bunkum had entered them in the county fair and won the cup for Best Cider in Show.

  Candy laughed and gasped and questioned and nodded as he told his tales. She enjoyed every little detail, and Barkbelly enjoyed telling her. And when she suddenly hugged him and told him how lovely it was to see him, he believed her. Candy had changed.

  This wasn't the spiteful little madam who had prowled the playground, spitting out insults. This was a new Candy: warm, welcoming and surprisingly modest. The fancy hair ribbons had gone and she was wearing a hand-me-down dress that looked faded and shabby, despite the sequins on its bodice. But Candy clearly loved it. When she was listening to the saga of Fish and the flagons, she took hold of the skirt and crumpled it up between her hands. When the tale was over, she carefully smoothed the creases out.