The Lightning Bolt

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Not to mention the lightning charm,’ Emilia murmured, and followed him, her shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders.

  The path led them down through the woods, all tangled with sloe berries and crimson rosehips and the fluffy grey seeds of clematis. The leaves of the beech trees above them were bright as new coins against the pale blue sky. Ivy smothered the ground, its invisible flowers sending a faint wild fragrance into the chilly air. Emilia’s feet did a little dance as she went down the path, the bracken brushing against her skirt. Luka began to whistle. She knew how much he had missed his music since he had given away his violin. It made her heart lift to hear him whistling as gaily as any blackbird.

  They came out of the woods, and stopped.

  Aghast.

  A ruin of a landscape lay before them. There were no trees, no hedges of blackthorn, elder or wild rose, no late drifts of wild parsley, no birds singing or rabbits bounding about. The ground was pitted and poisoned, littered with dead trees, and piles of ugly slag, and raw gaping holes from which sounded the dull ring of metal on stone. Smoke from the smouldering fires of charcoal-burners hung over the scene. Shallow pools of poisoned water were edged with nasty red slime like the inflammation of a wound. The only living things to be seen were grey-faced men in filthy smocks, working away with axe or pick or hammer, and the weary-looking horses, their heads hanging low as they trudged along the roads. At the far end of the valley, a huge grey building loomed over a huddle of low houses, its chimneys belching smoke, its windows flaring red.

  ‘What . . . what is this place?’ Emilia stammered.

  ‘I guess . . . I guess it’s the gun foundry. Milosh told us they make guns and cannons here, remember? They dig out the iron ore, and turn it into stuff – weapons, mainly, but other things too. Horseshoes . . .’ Luka’s voice trailed away.

  ‘It’s awful. Everything’s dead. And it smells horrible.’

  ‘We won’t have to stay long,’ Luka promised. ‘Let’s go and find the Smiths, and then we’ll go.’

  They both felt nervous as they made their way down the path to the road, Zizi hidden inside Luka’s coat, but no one paid them any attention. After a few minutes a cart came trundling past, and the driver yelled at them to get off the road.

  ‘Hey, know where I can find the Smiths?’ Luka cried as they scrambled onto the verge.

  ‘The Smiths? Everyone in this blasted valley is a smith,’ the driver yelled back and went on his way.

  ‘I guess he didn’t understand what I meant,’ Luka said.

  They trudged on behind, choking on the dust. Another cart passed them ten minutes later, and again they asked and again they received the same response.

  ‘No, I mean the Smith family,’ Luka yelled this time.

  The driver shrugged. ‘So did I,’ he answered, and cracked his whip. ‘They’re all Smiths round here.’

  Luka and Emilia sighed and walked on, Rollo at their heels. They came to a large common in the centre of the town. Houses were crowded higgledy-piggledy all round it, most built of red brick with timber framing. There was a large, prosperous-looking inn on the road, with a picture of a gun hanging above the door, but, much to Luka’s surprise, no church. He had never before been to a village that did not have a church.

  Two women were gossiping over a front fence, one with a basket of washing on her hip. A big, burly man with a shock of black hair and a huge beard was smoking a pipe on a bench outside the inn, a mug of ale in his hand. Luka saw one of his eyes was miscast, so it was hard to tell if he was staring at them or at some point behind their shoulders.

  On the green, children sat in a circle, tossing a ball from one to the other.

  ‘Earth!’ cried one skinny girl as she threw the ball away.

  ‘Rabbit,’ called the boy who caught it, then he turned and flung it hard at another child, shouting, ‘Water!’

  ‘Um . . . um . . . trout!’ stammered the catcher, before throwing it on to another child, and shouting, ‘Earth!’

  Taken by surprise, that child dropped the ball and at once everyone shouted, ‘You’re out! You’re out!’ He had to get up and leave the circle, while the other children went on throwing the ball back and forth, shouting out the names of the primary elements and the creatures that lived in them.

  ‘Wind!’

  ‘Eagle. Earth!’

  ‘Cat. Air!’

  ‘Swallow. Water!’

  ‘Herring. Fire!’

  At once there was silence. Everyone ducked their heads and stared at their feet. It was so strange to see them sitting so quietly after all the noise and motion that Emilia and Luka stopped to watch. For eight long counts everyone was quiet, then one of the boys wriggled impatiently, and sighed. At once he was made to get up and leave the circle too, and the game went on.

  ‘Why did you all have to sit all quiet like that?’ Emilia asked the boy, who was kicking his boot into the ground, looking cross. ‘What does it mean?’

  He stared at her in surprise. ‘It’s Earth, Wind, Fire. That’s how you play.’

  ‘But how come everyone has to be quiet when someone says “fire”?’

  He looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘There’s no creatures that live in fire, dummy. Fire burns everything to ash.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ Emilia said, and he ran off to join some of the other boys before she could ask him any more.

  ‘I guess you need to have a healthy respect for fire if you work in a forge,’ Luka said, crossing his arms across his stomach to stop Zizi from wriggling out. She was not at all tired and wanted to get out and play too.

  ‘Let’s go ask those women there if they know where we can find the Smiths,’ Emilia said, and led the way across the road.

  The women just stared at them in response. ‘Which one?’ the woman with the basket of washing said at last. ‘For we’re all Smiths here.’

  ‘Everyone?’ Emilia was flabbergasted. ‘In the whole valley?’

  ‘Well, not everyone,’ the woman said. ‘The Brownes own the foundry, of course, and the vicar’s a Poole, and the miller’s a Miller.’

  ‘But most of the rest of us are Smiths, if not by birth then by marriage, and if not by marriage then by trade,’ the other woman said. They both laughed.

  ‘So who do you want?’ the washing-woman said.

  ‘The Big Man,’ Luka said. ‘Where’s he?’

  The women exchanged glances. ‘I suppose Stevo is the Big Man now,’ one said hesitantly. ‘But his brother Dax is just here, you could ask him . . .’ She turned and glanced at the inn but the big man with the big beard was gone. She shrugged and turned back to the children. ‘They’re all up at the foundry. You shouldn’t go there. It’s not the place for children. Wait until tonight when they knock off work. They’ll all be here, at the Gun, wetting their dry throats.’

  ‘We can’t wait,’ Luka said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ Emilia said with a winning smile.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s not the place for weans, it’s dangerous,’ the woman insisted. ‘No one wants another accident . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ Luka said cheerfully. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  The women stared after them all the way up the street.

  The Gun Foundry

  The foundry was an immense dark hulk of a building, spewing forth smoke and great bursts of fire as if a dragon was imprisoned inside, fighting to escape a massive iron collar and chain. The air was so acrid that Emilia and Luka’s eyes were stinging before they were within twenty yards of the place, and the ground beneath their feet shook.

  A banging and a clanging assaulted their ears, like the sound of a thousand giant iron hammers pounding on a thousand giant anvils. Then came a great roar, and fire glared from the window slits. Rollo whined and pressed against Emilia’s leg. Inside Luka’s coat, Zizi whimpered and huddled closer to him, her paws pressed over her ears.

  Bang, clang, clash, rattle, boom boo
m boom!

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Emilia said, pressing her hands over her ears.

  ‘You stay here,’ Luka said. ‘Here, take Zizi! Don’t let her escape. I’ll be back soon. You stay with Milly, darling girl. I won’t be long.’

  He had to break Zizi’s clinging hold to pass her over to Emilia, and then he went on alone, staring up at the foundry in fascination. Luka had never seen anything like it.

  Bang, clang, clash, rattle, boom boom boom!

  At the top of a huge chimney, men were shovelling in great hard lumps of reddish-brown iron ore, and pouring in charcoal, and spadefuls of chalky limestone, while a hot, yellow, stinking liquid poured out at the bottom of the chimney, to be flung aside onto great mounds that set hard into ugly hunks of yellow-grey slag. More men were trundling wheelbarrows filled with sacks up to the men at the top of the foundry: others were manhandling heavy bars of iron onto carts, and others still were working away in the forge, hammering the iron into shape.

  They all worked furiously fast, most wearing nothing but tattered, filthy breeches. The sweat ran down their grimy bodies, forming grey rivulets in the black. It was ferociously hot. Luka stripped off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, mopping his forehead with the back of his arm. The air was so hot, it burnt the back of his throat when he breathed.

  He saw that a great pond of water had been created behind the foundry, with a mill-rush where the water came rushing and foaming down a broad channel, churning over the huge waterwheel attached to one side of the building.

  Spray was flung up, and Luka stood beneath it for a moment, catching drops on his parched tongue. Then he took a deep breath, and went in through the big double doors.

  Inside, all was darkness and smoke and fire. Men with soot-black bodies were silhouetted against a waterfall of liquid flame that poured ceaselessly down from above. Massive hammers pounded away, making Luka’s teeth shudder in his skull. He could feel the vibrations jolting up through his bare feet, all the way to the delicate bones behind his ears. There was a long hiss, like a giant serpent, and he jumped violently and spun. Behind him a pair of enormous bellows worked, more than twice as long as Luka himself.

  Sparks flew wide, like burning bees.

  ‘More charcoal!’ a stentorian voice roared. ‘Tell the men, more charcoal!’

  Luka peered towards the voice. Then a great black shape loomed up over him, a huge, hairy hand seized him by the scruff of the neck and he was lifted and heaved out, away from the falling river of fiery gold, away from the clang and bang and boom, and out into the smoke-hazed sunshine.

  ‘Idiot boy!’ the voice roared in his ear. ‘A blast furnace is no place for weans! Do you want to be cooked like pork crackling?’

  Luka wriggled free and straightened his shirt with dignity. ‘I’m looking for Stevo Smith.’

  ‘Why? What do you want him for?’

  ‘That’s my business, and his. Do you know where he is?’

  Fierce black eyes glared down at him. He was a giant of a man, with a thick mane of curling black hair and a bushy beard that jutted out over his massive chest. His arms were near as thick as Luka’s waist, and bulged with muscles. He wore nothing over his breeches but a leather jerkin, pitted with scorch marks, and his eyebrows drew down over his big nose in an intimidating scowl.

  ‘I’m Stevo,’ he said in his deep, gruff voice. ‘What do you want with me, boy?’

  Luka took a deep breath, finding it hard to begin. ‘I’m Luka Finch. My Baba is Maggie Finch, who they call Queen of the Gypsies. She and all our family have been arrested and thrown into gaol. The pastor wants to hang them. Baba told me to come and find you, and see if you can help. You’re our kin . . .’ His voice trailed away. He looked up at the big, black, hairy man despairingly. There had been no change of expression on the fierce man’s face. If anything, his scowl had deepened.

  ‘There is nothing I can do,’ Stevo Smith said. ‘Go home, little boy.’

  ‘Please!’ Luka cried. ‘My Baba is old, she shouldn’t be in gaol. And my little sister, she’s only nine, and my cousin Noah too – and he’s blind!’

  The big man froze midturn, then slowly turned back to Luka. For a long time he stared down at him, his eyes almost hidden by his scowl. His great beard quivered. Then he shook his head. ‘I cannot help you. I have my work to do here. We cannot leave the blast furnace once it is fired up. I’m sorry.’ He said this with no hint of apology in his voice, but as a way of terminating the discussion.

  ‘But you are our kin!’ Luka cried. ‘If we cannot call on our family in time of need, who can we call on?’

  ‘No one,’ Stevo said, and walked back inside the foundry.

  Luka felt anger roar up his body. He ran after Stevo Smith, back inside the black, stinking belly of the foundry, and seized the big man by his arm. ‘You can’t just walk away like that!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you care? You’re a Rom too. The Rom need to help each other, for no one else is going to!’

  Stevo glared down at him. ‘We’re not Rom any more. We’ve given up the roads.’

  ‘Once a Rom, always a Rom,’ Luka said.

  Stevo jerked his arm free. ‘Will you get out of here, boy! What do you think I can do to help you? All I’ll do is get myself and my family into trouble. I tell you, we’ve given up the roads, we’ve got work here, and homes, our noses are clean. You’re bad news, you are. I’ve no desire to get myself tangled up with the constables. You’re a wanted man, and if I do anything to help you, they’ll be seizing me and throwing me into gaol too.’

  Luka was in such a rage he barely took in what Stevo had said. ‘You think you’re so high and mighty!’ he cried. ‘I know you’ve been selling cannons to the enemy! That’s treason, that is. What if I tell the constables about that?’

  Stevo seized him by the arm and propelled him rapidly across the foundry floor and into a small, dark office, slamming the door behind him. It happened so fast that Luka could not even try to resist. ‘You fool!’ Stevo hissed, thrusting his dark, hairy face very close to Luka’s. ‘What do you think you’re doing, shouting out things like that on the foundry floor, where anyone could hear you!’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ Luka flashed back, trying not to show how shaken and afraid he was. ‘And if you don’t promise to help us, I’m going to tell.’

  Stevo laughed uproariously, and flung himself back in a chair, sticking his huge, thick legs out in front of him. ‘Who? Who are you going to tell? The constables? They’ll just be glad to get their hands on you. That thief-taker would pay a handsome reward to have you back, I bet. Besides, do you really think Old Ironsides and his spymaster don’t know about the cannons? They’re not easy things to transport, you know. We can’t just hoist them up onto the back of a pony like a bale of wool. No, if the Lord Protector really wanted to stop us, he could. But then who would make his guns for him? We’re more use to him here in the foundry than in prison, I assure you.’

  ‘How do you know about the thief-taker?’ Luka whispered.

  Stevo rocked back and forth on the back legs of his chair. ‘Word’s gone out, little man. He’s looking for you. A boy, a girl, a dog and a monkey. He knew you’d come here asking for help. So, you see, I’m not such a hard man as you think. I could hold you here and send word to him, and claim that reward for myself. But I won’t. I’ll warn you instead. You’d better get out of here fast, for that thief-taker doesn’t like to be crossed and, by all accounts, you’ve been crossing him at every turn.’

  Even though it was stifling hot in the dark little hole of a room, Luka felt chilled through. ‘Coldham’s here? Here in Horsmonden?’

  ‘Not far away,’ Stevo said. ‘Better get moving, little man.’

  Luka’s legs and brain felt frozen. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then said, ‘You know then why we’re here? It’s not just to beg you to help us break my family out of gaol, it’s to ask you for the charm as well. The lightning bolt charm. Do you have it?’

&
nbsp; Stevo dropped the front legs of the chair down to the ground. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Just then the door banged open. Luka jumped, and spun round. In the doorway was a crowd of other men, all nearly as big and dark and hairy as Stevo. One was taller and thinner than the others, another was short and wide with a bulging big forehead, one was gaping in open curiosity, and the fourth had a long scar puckering the side of his mouth into a sneer. At the very back was the man they had seen at the Gun Inn, his lazy eye making him look shiftier than ever. These were evidently the other Smith brothers.

  Instantly Luka christened them Bean-Pole, Potato-Head, Pea-Brain, Scar-Face, and Lazy-Eye, for want of other names. It was pure bravado.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Scar-Face growled.

  Stevo got up. ‘Everything’s fine. This little game-cock was just leaving.’ He turned to Luka. ‘Go on, get out,’ he said.

  Luka’s legs felt quite wobbly. He put his head down and pushed out between the six men, then made his way across the foundry floor, unable to help peering around to make sure Coldham was not lurking in the shadows. When he reached the sunlit yard, he broke into a run, and he did not stop running until he had found Emilia.

  Emilia, meanwhile, stood by the hammer pond, skipping stones across the surface. Zizi perched on a fallen log beside her, mimicking her. She had not got the movement quite right, though, and so her stones all sank with a big plop! This made the monkey very cross. She leapt up and down on the log, and gibbered wildly, then began picking up sticks and stones and throwing them at the pond willy-nilly.

  ‘Don’t let the Smiths see you throwing sticks in the pool,’ a boy’s voice said behind her. Emilia turned round. It was the boy she had spoken to on the common.

  ‘Why not?’ Emilia asked.

  ‘Sticks can get caught in the waterwheel and stop it turning. Once the blast furnace is lit, they can’t turn it off, and so anything that might damage the waterwheel is very dangerous. They have a man whose only job is to keep the pond free of weed and sticks. He’ll be furious if he sees you.’