B00DW1DUQA EBOK Page 3

  Then he stopped. He thought he’d heard something else too: someone moving through the woods behind him as he climbed, the sound of something pushing through the undergrowth. He could hear nothing now. Perhaps it was just his own echo bouncing off the trees. Everything sounded strange in the snow. Small birds hopped around in the high branches, spots of black against the blue sky. Nothing else moved. There were wild animals in the high woods, of course, black bears and wolves, but none had ever been seen close to the village.

  He wondered again where Shireen’s glade was, whether it was nearby. He had often tried to find it. It wasn’t anywhere here, anyway.

  Shrugging, he set off, angling up the slope to make the ascent easier. Each step was an effort now, more of a leap, the snow up to his knees. He waded forwards for a time then, abruptly, stopped again, whipping round to see if he could catch a glimpse of a pursuer. This time he caught a clear flicker of movement behind him: a detached shadow melting into the trees.

  Someone was definitely there. Tall: a person, not an animal. These were his woods. Now that Shireen had gone no-one else came here. He didn't like to think of someone else sharing them. He thought about the Ironclads. They came for him in his dreams most nights: clanking machine-men that kept on coming no matter what you did to stop them. If you smashed them into pieces the broken fragments crept on towards you. You could never rest. Had they followed his trail to find him, alone and helpless out in the woods? Had they been out here all along, waiting for him?

  He was nearly at the upper edge of the woods now. Above him the hill grew steeper and became the flank of the mountain. He had planned to find a long, steep slope up there he could sledge down. Now he only thought about hurrying back to the river. Whatever followed him wouldn’t dare pursue him all the way home. He considered hopping onto his sledge. But the ground here was steep. If he lost control and crashed into a tree his pursuer would surely catch him.

  Panting heavily, lungs burning from the climb, he strode back into the woods instead. If he didn’t run, his pursuer might not realise Finn had spotted them. There was a place lower down where the trees thinned out and the hill became the bank of the river, a little upstream from his home. If he could reach that he would be safe. His toes felt numb and swollen. The sledge, still gripped in his left hand, slipped down the slope ahead of him, pulling him forwards.

  He heard a vast crack, then, as loud as someone firing an enormous gun nearby. It echoed off the trees. Finn looked round in shock, thinking he had been shot at. Even through his numbed feet he felt the ground shake. The trees around him shivered, shedding snow and ice in great curtains. What was going on?

  ‘Finn!’

  His pursuer bounded towards him, a single figure dressed in black, loping over the snow at speed.

  ‘Finn! It’s an avalanche! Run!’

  It was Connor. The older boy had followed him all this way. Finn tried to get away, bounding down the slope, half-falling, stumbling and weaving between the tree-trunks.

  He was too slow. Connor caught him and flipped him around by the arm. Finn tried to pull himself loose and they both rolled to the ground. Snow filled Finn’s mouth, cold and gritty. He tried to beat the bigger boy off with his fists but Connor didn’t fight back. Instead he was shouting something.

  ‘Finn. It’s an avalanche. Come on!’

  He hauled Finn up and set off down the slope, towing Finn with him. From behind them, a growing rumble filled the air, like thunder but becoming louder each moment. Finn looked that way. The hillside beyond the last of the trees was gone, as if a white cloud had descended. What did it mean? He had never seen anything like it. Shock staked him to the ground.

  ‘Finn, we need a tree. A big one.’

  ‘A tree?’ he said, not understanding. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just take us! We need a big tree to climb. We’ve only got a few seconds. We …’

  The roaring drowned out the rest of Connor’s words. Finn felt drops on his face as if it was snowing again, but there was only blue sky overhead. The snow had come alive, turning into a roaring beast, chasing them down the hillside.

  Now Finn ran, Connor close behind him. There was a big tree a little down the slope, one he had climbed a few times. They might be able to reach that. It was hard to keep his footing in the deep snow. Twice he tumbled over. Each time Connor picked him up, only to stagger himself a few paces on. Finn felt cold biting at the back of his neck, jaws of snow snapping at him.

  He saw the tree, an old oak, its bulky trunk wide and tall, an upturned wrist and hand grasping at the sky. Once you reached the palm it was easy enough to climb. He just hoped the trunk wasn’t too slippery with ice.

  ‘This one,’ shouted Finn. Connor couldn’t possibly hear him but he nodded as Finn pointed. They ran around the tree, downslope from the thundering snow. Connor looked up into the branches then cupped his hands to give Finn a leg-up. It struck Finn that Connor was terrified too. He had thought, somehow, that all of this, the snow coming to life, the avalanche, was Connor’s doing. A trap he’d planned all along. But the other boy’s eyes were wide with fear.

  Finn stepped into the offered hands and Connor boosted him up to the lowest branch. Finn hauled himself into the tree and, lying wedged between the forking branches, reached back down for Connor.

  The world was a blizzard now, the ground and the other trees gone, only Connor’s hand visible reaching though the teeming white. Finn could feel the whole tree shuddering as a mountainside of snow slammed into it. He reached down and grasped Connor’s hand, pulling him up with a huge effort. They sat there together for a moment, both out of breath.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Connor. ‘We have to climb higher!’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Finn shouted back. But Connor was already scrambling upwards. Finn glanced down. The boiling snow was nearer, as if the whole tree was sinking into the ground. He turned and climbed after Connor.

  They stopped when they could go no farther, high, high up in the ancient tree. The trunk was little thicker than Finn’s own thighs here. They clung on as the tree swayed and jolted beneath them: clung onto the tree and to each other. When Finn closed his eyes it felt as if the oak was lurching to the ground, whipping backwards and forwards. He gulped down helpless, terrified tears, sobs racking his whole body, glad that the snow was too loud for Connor to hear him.

  The avalanche ended as abruptly as it had started. The roaring died away and sunlight found them again. Their tree had stayed upright, although many around had not. A broken pine lay with its top caught in a nearby oak, its trunk like a ramp down to the ground.

  Finn looked at Connor. They had both been crying. They let go of each other. It was suddenly very quiet. No birds sang, as if they had all been swept away by the snow. What would happen now? He was conscious of being up there alone with the older boy. He was too weary to fight. He wanted his father to come and carry him off home.

  The older boy began to laugh, then, full of glee. Finn stared at him, amazed. What was he laughing at? Connor whooped with delight, shouting at the stunned forest all around them.

  ‘Hah! Didn’t get us, did you? Can’t catch us! Hah!’

  He looked ridiculous, bawling out to nobody at all. Finn found himself grinning at the sight of him, then chuckling as well. Soon they were both roaring with laughter, until Finn’s cheeks hurt and sharp pain stabbed him in the side. If either of them stopped, the sight of the other trying not to laugh just started them off again.

  ‘Hey avalanche! You missed us!’ Finn shouted.

  For five minutes or more neither could stop laughing. Finally, still grinning and giggling, they sat down next to each other in a crook of the branches.

  ‘Why … why were you following me?’ Finn managed to ask.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ said Connor. ‘Not at first. I was looking for somewhere to ice-fish and found your tracks. I followed, then I heard the snow breaking. My dad warned me it could happen but I didn’t believe him.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  Connor shrugged, as if near-death adventures happened to him every day. ‘You saved mine. I couldn't have found that tree without you.’

  Finn grinned and looked at Connor. The older boy wasn’t, in truth, very much taller than he was. He looked much stronger, though, his arms thick with muscles where Finn’s were just straight lines.

  ‘You’re a good climber,’ said Connor. ‘Just like a squirrel.’ His eyes glinted with amusement beneath his shock of black hair.

  ‘Good job no-one has a catapult down there,’ said Finn.

  Connor laughed. He flipped off the backpack he carried and pulled out his catapult. It was a Y-shaped piece of wood with red twine bound around it for a handle. It was strung with a length of strong elastic upon which was threaded a small leather pouch.

  ‘Fancy a go?’ asked Connor. ‘I’ve got a few stones. I collect the good ones.’

  They took turns firing the catapult, making the pebbles rebound of the surrounding trees, seeing who could hit a certain branch, seeing who could fire a stone the farthest. Connor’s went so far you lost sight of them but Finn was at least as accurate as the older boy. Twice he beat Connor to hit a knot on a nearby oak.

  ‘Here’s your prize,’ said Connor. He pulled two apples out of his backpack and handed one to Finn. They both ate hungrily.

  ‘How deep do you think the snow is?’ asked Finn. The ground looked much nearer than it normally did.

  ‘Pretty deep. Don’t think we could walk through it.’

  ‘When do you think they'll find us?’

  ‘Oh, soon enough,’ said Connor, leaning backwards against the trunk of the tree and closing his eyes. ‘Our tracks will have been obliterated but they’ll find us. Wait, I know!’

  He was alert again and rummaging around in his backpack. This time he pulled out a small, wooden whistle.

  ‘My mother carved it for me. There’s a dried pea inside, see.’

  He put it to his lips and blew, sending out a shrill sound that cut easily through the muffled air.

  ‘We’ll blow this every few minutes then they’ll know where we are. I’ve got this, too.’

  He fished out a small, brass tube. A telescope. Connor stretched it open and held it up to his eye, surveying the woods around them.

  ‘It’s our old line-of-sight. There’s a crack in one of the lenses but it still works.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  It took a few moments for Finn to get his eye in the right place, and to work out how to focus it. He wasn’t allowed to touch theirs at home. The distant trees down the slope sprang into sharp detail. He swept the telescope backwards and forwards, looking for signs of life, for someone coming to rescue them.

  ‘See anyone?’ asked Connor.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ah, well. They’ll find us.’

  Connor didn’t seem in the least frightened now. It was all like some game for him. If Finn had been on his own he’d probably have tried to climb down and make his way home. Connor seemed quite comfortable where he was.

  ‘Here, watch this,’ said Connor.

  The older boy stood again and, after a moment’s fumbling, sent out a jet of pee into the air. He took great delight in making swirling patterns in the snow beneath them.

  ‘I can write my name!’ he called.

  Laughing again, Finn stood to join in with him.

  When the daylight started to fade, darkness creeping through the trees to surround them, they huddled back together for warmth, locking arms. Finn shivered with the cold. His eyes drifted shut again and again, but he was terrified of falling asleep and pitching out of the tree. He blew the whistle one more time.

  ‘I heard about your sister,’ said Connor.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did she want to go?’

  Finn shrugged but said nothing. He blew the whistle again, as loud as he could.

  This time he heard an answering call, someone shouting in the distance. The two boys scrambled to their feet. Connor snatched the whistle and blew it again and again. Through the gloom they heard more calls, voices growing louder.

  It was fully dark by the time their rescuers arrived. Finn’s parents and several workers from the farm, including Connor’s own father and two uncles. Not Connor’s mother, of course, as she was bed-ridden and never left her room. Matt was with them, lengthsman’s tools slung over his shoulder. Some of the men drove a team of eight heavy horses, pushing a great wooden plough up through the drifts. The horses strained against the hill and the weight of the snow, steam rising off them as they stamped forwards. Men shovelled mounds of snow aside with diamond-shaped spades. Others held up hissing torches that burned with a shifting light and gave off threads of smoke that lay horizontal in the cold air.

  At the tree, his father sat on one of the horses and reached up to pluck Finn from the lowest branch. He held Finn tight for long moments, muffling him into his furs, his grip like iron. Finn had to turn his head to one side to breathe but he didn’t mind. Then his father held him out at arms’ length, dangling him in the air to look into his eyes.

  ‘What were you thinking of? I've told you a hundred times to stay away from the snow fields.’

  ‘I ...’

  ‘It wasn't his fault,’ called out Connor from another horse. ‘It was mine. I was chasing him.’

  Finn looked across at Connor, who winked. He sat in front of his own father. The Baron was a short, powerful man with a scowling red face. Finn avoided him at all times. The King of the Valley they sometimes called him, only half-joking. Finn could see, now, the similarity of Connor to his father. Finn, on the other hand, was nothing like his father. He was tall for his age but stick-thin.

  ‘No,’ said Finn. ‘It wasn't like that. Connor saved me. I didn't know what was happening. I forgot about what you said. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just so long as you’re both safe,’ the Baron said.

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Finn’s father. ‘No harm done. But listen to what we tell you next time, eh?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Finn’s mother. ‘Let’s get you both home.’

  The two boys were wrapped in blankets and given soup that had been kept warm in a silver flask. They sat side-by-side on a plank of wood stretched across the horses’ traces, facing backwards, rocking together as they made their way back down the slope. Everyone moved slowly, men and horses exhausted by their efforts. They followed the path that had been forced through the avalanche on the way up. Finn, very sleepy, watched the trees drift by over the high walls of ploughed snow.

  Back near the water-wheel they went their separate ways, Connor and the horses to the farm, Finn walking with his mother and father to their own house. The snow was thinner here. The avalanche had hit the river some way upstream. There were countless lines of footprints, as if a crowd of people had been darting backwards and forwards looking for something.

  His father picked him up, swung him round and placed him onto his shoulders. They headed for home, the electric lights from their windows twinkling to them through the gathering gloom.

  ‘I lost my sledge,’ said Finn.

  ‘We can make a new sledge,’ said his father.

  ‘Hey, Finn!’ Connor called out. ‘Let’s play together tomorrow!’

  Finn twisted to see Connor disappearing into the darkness astride one of his father’s horses. Too weary to shout, Finn waved a thumbs-up sign at his new friend.

  Chapter 3

  A shower of rain thrummed on the metal roof of the moving engine, heavier and heavier, the sound swelling from drum-beat to roar. Finn clasped his hands over his ears. It was the roar of the avalanche once again. Despite the darkness he screwed his eyes tight shut. He rocked himself backwards and forwards. Water seeped in from somewhere, dripping onto him in slow, fat drops, sloshing around on the floor to soak his feet.

  There were drainage holes in the floor of the machine. Plumes of muddy water squirted up through them, thrown up by the iron wheels. He imagined the engine sinking into the mud, stuck so that even the horses couldn’t haul it out. He imagined mud oozing in through the holes in the floor, drowning him inside his metal cage. He put his eye to the nearest ventilation hole and peered out. They were still grinding forwards. All he could see was sodden woodland slipping by, the black bulk of an Ironclad horse, splashes of mud kicked up by dinner-plate hooves.

  He glimpsed a row of trees and the wall of a house, the stone red, unlike the yellows and browns of home. His forehead banged against the metal wall as they lurched along. There was a figure, a woman, standing by the side of the road, watching them pass. She held a shawl bunched at her throat with her fist. Finn could only see the lower half of her face, the straight line of her mouth, rain dripping from her chin.

  When they passed through villages the whole population would often be there, watching them, not speaking, as if they were a funeral procession. Children hid behind the legs of adults. They reminded Finn of the day he and Connor had watched their own village coming out, the day they’d first glimpsed a moving engine and Finn hadn’t known what it was.

  Occasionally he spotted a Switch House, unmistakable with its telescopes bristling at all angles. He would imagine messages flashing back up to his own house, to Mrs. Megrim and then on to his parents. Finn is here. Finn is passing through here. He would think about shouting to the people, telling them to send a message, say he was still alive, that they hadn’t beaten him. But he knew the people wouldn’t dare.

  It became more and more humid inside the engine, the heat from the machine turning the air to steam. He panted as if he’d been running. He scooped up some of the water sloshing around by his feet and sipped at it. It tasted of mud and rust, making his mouth gritty. He spat the water back out.

  They had thrown his backpack inside with him and he lifted it onto his lap now to try and keep it dry. He buried his head in the patchwork blanket his mother had strapped to it, breathing in the familiar, soft smell, wiping his eyes. Then he rummaged inside the bag for one of the honey sweets. He’d planned to ration himself to one a day, make them last as long as possible, but this was already his third since the morning. Still, sucking them helped. They were his secret. They were the only way, for now, that he could defy the Ironclads and the master who gave them their orders.