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  Three Tree Hill was nearby: a small rise in the ground around which the Silverburn curled in a loop. Three vast oaks stood in a line upon it, their outstretched branches crossing through each other high above his head, as if they were interlocking their arms. It was Finn’s greatest ambition in life to climb one of those oaks and work his way from branch to branch across to the other two without ever touching the ground. He decided to try again now. He shinned his way up the nearest trunk. Branches and knurs in the wood gave him all the toeholds he needed. The hard part was the leap between. The branches were never that close together when you climbed up high. The gulf of air down to the hard ground made him dizzy when he looked. From the second tree, he knew, there was a drop from a higher branch to a lower that was again possible, but the boughs weren’t exactly under each other and you’d have to get it just right.

  He stood up there for long minutes, holding one of the smaller branches to steady himself, imagining himself making the leap. A breeze blew on his face, ruffling his hair. He could smell the green of the tree. His knees jerked once or twice as they thought about actually jumping, but still he held on tight. He knew he could do it; he had measured out the distance on the ground and made it easily. Still, up here, it was a different thing.

  Eventually, he gave up and worked his way back to the trunk to climb higher. There was a point where a branch curved off like a horse’s neck, forming a natural seat. He leaned his back against the trunk of the tree, perched far above the ground. Two smaller branches formed natural arms for him to hold onto. This was his secret place. He loved it up here, especially now it was summer and the leaves hid him from the world. He was flying above the land. When the wind blew more strongly, whipping the branches to and fro, making the whole tree sway, he was in the rolling crow’s nest of a ship from some story, sailing across the fields to distant lands. He loved the feeling of being alone. He loved looking down on people walking along the lane, unaware of his presence.

  Most of the leaves were still on the trees, although each gust of wind sent a fresh flock gliding to the ground. Through the gaps he could see the river, rattling down stony waterfalls here, the fields, then the hills of the valley in which he had spent his whole life. He turned his head to look down the lane, the way the Ironclads had taken Shireen. He could just see the chimney of Turnpike Cottage. Somewhere beyond that, over the line of those blue hills, lay Engn itself. He had once climbed to the very top of the tree, onto slender branches that bowed under his weight, to see if he could see over the peaks to the great city.

  He wondered how far away she was now. He wanted to shout to her, in his loudest voice, to tell her he was there. But he knew she wouldn’t hear him. Instead he plucked leaves from the tree and sent them floating down to the distant ground.

  He saw someone coming towards him across the fields on the other side of the river. Someone striding through shoulder-high corn as if swimming in water. At first he thought it was her, escaped, miraculously returned. But the hair was the wrong colour, the walk wrong. Whoever it was hadn’t seen him. They kept stopping and looking from side to side, but never up into the trees.

  Finn peered forwards, gripping the branches tight. With a jolt of alarm, he realised it was Connor. The older boy had a catapult in his hands. He stopped to fire stones at birds that clattered from the corn as he disturbed them. Finn wasn’t allowed a catapult. He had been promised one when he was ten. But Connor appeared to be an expert already. A clump of crows wheeled up in alarm from a beech on the riverbank, voices grating. One of their numbers flopped to the ground in a flurry of feathers. Connor fired again, trying to hit one of the crows in flight.

  With slow movements, Finn edged his way back down the tree, trying not to make the branches sway. Perhaps if he could move around the trunk, keep it between himself and the older boy, he could run away without being noticed. He could hear the thrum of the catapult now, and Connor’s laughter as he hit another target.

  Finn missed his footing and landed hard on a lower branch, making it wave in the air like a flag. A squirrel, disturbed by the commotion, shot around the trunk, past Finn’s head and out along one of the branches. Perhaps it had intended to leap across to the next tree, too, but it chose the wrong branch. It ran out as far as it could, body and tail flowing in a perfect arc, but stopped at the end with nowhere to go. It sat up on its hind legs, head flicking around. A stone from the catapult cracked through the tree, barely missing it, knocking aside leaves with a click and sending them spinning downwards. The squirrel didn’t understand. Another stone cut through the branches, striking it in the head with a soft crunch.

  It cartwheeled to the ground. Through the leaves, Finn saw it hit the grass. It lay there twitching, legs running uselessly in the air, head ruined. Finn hung between branches, very still, hoping that Connor would think the squirrel had made all the noise.

  ‘Are you stuck up there?’ Connor shouted. ‘Do you need help to get down too?’

  Finn’s heart hammered. He was a long way from home and there was no-one to help him. The worse thing was, although the river was between them, it was easy to cross here by leaping from stone to stone, especially with the waters so low. He knew he didn’t have long before Connor would be at the foot of the tree, aiming his catapult up at him.

  In a desperate hurry, face flushed with heat, Finn thrashed from branch to branch, making no effort to conceal his whereabouts. If he dropped to the ground Connor would see him but if he could make the leap to the second tree he might be safe.

  Another stone drummed off the trunk of the tree.

  Finn stood back on the outstretched bough for a moment, excitement and terror flaring inside him. Before he could stop himself, he leapt into the open air. He hung there for long, long moments, aware of the ground beneath him, sucking him down. Then he landed on the other branch, bashing his left shin into it but managing to grasp a smaller branch to struggle on properly. He was across. He crouched there for a moment while his heart raced away, unable to believe what he had just done.

  ‘I’m coming to get you!’ Connor shouted.

  Finn crawled his way along the branch, more careful now, not wanting Connor to know where he was, not daring to stand up. He reached the trunk of the second tree, then began to climb. Connor hadn’t fired any more stones for a while. Crossing the river.

  In some ways the drop didn’t seem as bad as the leap; leaves not too far below hid the ground, giving the illusion of a solid surface to catch him. But if he missed the branch of the third tree the drop would kill him. Break his legs or his back at least. He sat with feet dangling in the air, trying to judge how hard to push off. The first drops of rain patted through the leaves around him. The best thing to do was to land feet-first on the branch of the third tree. He had to do it.

  With a gasp he pushed himself off. Instantly he was falling, not flying towards the branch as he had imagined. He hadn’t pushed off hard enough. His feet missed completely. Twigs smacked his face, catching him in the eye. With outstretched arms he managed to catch the branch as it rose past him. He clung on, swinging there, his feet running uselessly as he tried to gain a foothold. He swung his legs up to lie along the branch like a cat.

  ‘I can see you!’

  Connor sounded gleeful. But also distant. Finn guessed he was still over by the first tree, peering up through the leaves.

  Finn pulled himself along the branch, breathing heavily and sobbing at the same time, then began to climb down to the ground. His legs felt wobbly but they knew the sequence of branches perfectly and he didn’t slip again. He dropped to the ground and hid behind the third trunk. He could hear no running footsteps and no stones whistled past his ear. He had done it.

  He ran, directly away from the trees, out across the field so Connor wouldn’t see him, then around the bottom of the mound and so back to the lane. He didn’t dare look back.

  He arrived home, panting and wide-eyed, his shin bleeding where the skin had been scraped off.

 
His mother, meeting him at the door, squeezed him very hard. She smelt of fresh bread and summer flowers. She held him at arm’s length to look at him.

  ‘Where have you been?’ What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Look at you. You’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  He slipped from her grasp into the house, where delicious smells of cooking awaited.

  It was two weeks before he dared venture so far from home again. This time he saw no-one else. He had the oaks of Three Tree Hill all to himself.

  Chapter 2

  The wind hammered at the windows. Finn sat with his parents at the table one evening, eating hunks of fresh bread and slices of cheese. They also had a bowl of bright red apples, windfalls from their little orchard. The log fire blazed and cracked, occasionally sending brilliant sparks shooting out onto the floor. When they did, his father would leap up, pluck them off the rug and toss them back into the fire before they could do any damage. They never seemed to hurt him.

  ‘Winter’s coming on,’ said his mother. She gazed off to the side, as if she could see through the walls into the gloom outside. ‘Soon be time to turn the lights on.’

  It was dark when he went to bed now. Shireen used to read to him as he drifted off to sleep. In the summer it was light enough with just the curtains open but in the winter they would sit under the flickering incandescent globe in his room, huddled together under the blankets as she read.

  ‘Water-wheel will need recaulking,’ said his father. ‘I’d better strip down the generators before winter, too.’

  ‘That’s supposed to be Matt’s job,’ said his mother.

  His father grunted in amusement. ‘Best do it myself.’

  He waved towards Finn with a triangle of the bread.

  ‘Finn? Want to give me a hand tomorrow?’

  Finn felt reluctant. His father would grow cross with some technicality of the task at hand and Finn, unable to help, would just be in the way. But he’d probably be able to wander off, then, without his father minding. And, if he was lucky, there would be time for a game of chase or hide on the way.

  ‘Yes, father.’

  His mother picked up one of the apples, assessed it for a moment, then bit into its shiny skin.

  ‘Nice and sweet,’ she said. ‘Time we got them in. Without Shireen to help I’d better get started soon.’

  The wind rose again, rattling the door this time, hissing through the gap underneath.

  ‘Why did they take her?’ asked Finn. ‘The Ironclads.’

  His mother looked at his father. They had been waiting for him to ask.

  ‘Finn, it’s an honour to be called to work upon Engn,’ said his mother. ‘It’s a sacred duty. Few are taken.’

  ‘But I want her to play with me. Will she come back?’

  ‘No, love. You are called for life.’

  ‘Can we go and see her?’

  ‘No, no. That isn’t allowed.’

  ‘But you went once, father. You told me about it. You said there were huge wheels as big as the setting moon. And chimneys far higher than any trees. It was bigger than our whole valley and at night it sparkled with light. It made the ground shake even from miles away. You said it was wonderful.’

  His father put down the bread he was chewing.

  ‘Yes, I said all that. But no-one is permitted to go so near now without being taken by the Ironclads.’

  ‘What’s permitted?’

  ‘It means you’re not allowed to go there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s the way it is. Engn is a forbidden place.’

  Finn thought about this. They said the great machine spread farther across the land every year. How big would it eventually be? Would it reach them, there in the valley? They ate in silence for a time.

  ‘When I’m bigger, will I be taken too?’ asked Finn.

  His father looked hard at him. There was anger in his eyes but his voice was soft when he spoke. His anger wasn’t with Finn.

  ‘No. You will not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They can’t take more than one from the same family,’ his mother said. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Finn, I promise you,’ said his father. ‘You won’t be taken. I won’t allow it. Now eat up.’

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence. When he’d finished, Finn scrambled up the wooden ladder to his bed, to read to himself.

  Winter came early that year. The soil froze to stone and was then buried under snow. Each morning brought a fresh fall, covering up the tracks and marks of the previous day as if the whole world had been renewed. The air was as sharp as knives on Finn’s cheeks when he went outside to play.

  He chewed his breakfast, now, deciding what to do that day. There was a sudden pounding at the door. He gasped and looked up. His mother, scrubbing a pan at the kitchen sink, caught the look of alarm on his face. His father, scowling, crossed the room from the fire he was tending, to haul open the door. In a great plume of windblown snow, Matt Dobey stepped into the room.

  The lengthsman was dressed in thick, inside-out furs that inflated him to twice his normal size. He stamped snow from his boots and pushed back his hood to reveal his familiar smile: eyes wide, expression exaggerated, the smile of someone perpetually addressing young children. He reminded Finn of one of the cows on the farm: large, docile, bemused. He was bald like a baby, the dome of his head shining. His soft face resembled the formless lumps of dough his mother slid into the oven each morning.

  ‘Well, any more of this and we’ll be stranded in our own homes,’ he said brightly. ‘Hello, young man. Grown again, I see.’

  Finn smiled, excused from replying by a mouthful of bread.

  ‘Sit down,’ said his father to Matt. ‘I’ll be ready soon.’

  Matt sat in the fourth chair: the one they kept at the table but which no-one used. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them.

  ‘Where are you going today, Matt?’ His mother stood at the kitchen door, drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Not far I hope?’ She was thinner these days, shadows under her cheeks. Now when Finn hugged her, the soft bulk of her body was turning to bones.

  ‘Old Mrs. Hampton has a broken connection,’ said Matt. ‘Been without light nearly a week.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Then the path up to the Switch House needs clearing. Mrs. Megrim keeps telling me how dangerous it is. If I don’t get round to that today there’ll be trouble, eh?’

  ‘Well, she’s not one to stand any messing, Mrs. Megrim.’

  The men left on a blast of chill air. His father often grumbled about how useless Matt was at mending the roads and keeping the electricity flowing, but when they were together they were the best of friends. It was strange. Finn could hear their laughter fading as they trudged away from the house.

  When his breakfast was finished and he was bundled up in enough clothes to satisfy his mother, Finn followed them outside. The snow had stopped falling. The sun lifted over the hillside, sparkling off the fields and roofs, gold glints in the perfect white. Finn scooped up a handful of snow, his fingers tingling with the cold of it. He crushed the snow into a ball and hurled it as far out into the field as he could, where it landed with a satisfying crump.

  It was, he decided, a perfect day for sledging.

  His father had built the toboggan for him the previous winter: polished wood, light and strong. He pulled it by its cord across the garden. The explosion of summer flowers was long gone now. The garden was a plain of white apart from a few bony sprout stalks, like sheep’s spines, writhing out of the ground.

  ‘Stay away from the water!’ his mother called after him.

  He looked back to see her framed in the doorway of their stone house. The double lines in the snow made by the sledge led all the way back to her feet. Finn smiled and waved to her, before pushing on out of the garden.

  A line of wooden posts, each topped
with a stylised bolt of lightning, led away towards the river. These marked the line of the underground cables that carried electricity from the water-wheel. Lines of posts ran throughout the valley, up to each building. His mother and father had told him many times never to dig anywhere near them.

  He followed the posts now. Each day there was more ice on the water of the mill-pond and he wanted to see if, today, it had finally frozen all the way across. The snow was deep, covering his leather boots completely, cracking underfoot with each step. Apart from the footprints of birds, lines of scattered letter Y’s and W’s, the snow was untouched. He was the first person in the whole world to walk in it. He almost felt like he shouldn’t.

  Water gurgled down the leat that powered the wheel but otherwise the world was completely silent, the air muffled, like being under blankets. Nothing moved. The pond had frozen over more but there was still a circle of open water in the middle. His father had explained that water froze from the surface downwards; that even if it froze right across it would still be flowing underneath. Finn skidded stones across it. The ice echoed with a weird, metallic sound. He tried to make the stones stop on the very lip of the ice, then tried to hurl them directly into the water without touching the sides.

  When that game was exhausted he picked up the cord of his sledge again. He had tried with it yesterday but the slopes had been too gentle. He’d sunk into the soft snow. He needed somewhere steeper.

  He crossed the footbridge, fanged with icicles, and began to climb up into the woods. The paths had all vanished, of course, the whole land rubbed clean of detail, but he knew exactly which way to go, knew which trees the trails wound around. He worked his way up the sides of the valley, the snow deeper and deeper all the time. Occasionally a branch, warmed by the sun, dropped a line of snow near him with a soft wumph. Other than that the only sounds were his own breathing and the shush of the sledge behind him.