The Lightning Bolt

by Kate Forsyth

  Emilia looked up and up and up, into the very apex of the foundry, where the molten iron ore poured in a gaudy waterfall down into the hearth below. Men, half-naked, soot-streaked, worked feverishly swinging moulds in and out of place, and manhandling great slabs of pig iron away from the hearth. Above, she could see a hazy circle of clouded stars. It did not surprise her that the red planet winked there.

  ‘What about Rollo?’ she said tersely. Beside her, the big dog whined softly and licked her hand. ‘He cannot climb. Nor Sweetheart. Not so far. She’d never do it.’

  Van was silent. ‘There’s a back entrance,’ he said eventually. ‘But we’d have to pass whichever of my brothers is on duty. They see everything, my brothers.’

  ‘I cannot leave Rollo or Sweetheart,’ Emilia said. ‘We’ve come so far . . .’

  ‘Make a diversion,’ Sebastien said, a grin in his voice. ‘Shout “Fire!”’

  Van was not amused.

  ‘Come this way,’ he murmured. ‘Keep quiet and low.’

  They followed him along the wall, keeping to the shadows. A cascade of sparks burst out, and Emilia could clearly see the forms and faces of her companions, their glinting eyes, the bear’s massive shape. But no one cried the alarm. The sparks died down, and they went on.

  Behind the main room was another series of small apertures or chambers. In one a mechanism of cogs and wheels slowly churned over, pumping a giant pair of bellows that sounded first like a pit full of adders, then like the sea in a cave. It puffed out great gusts of air that kept the fire leaping and crackling. Elsewhere, giant hammers were pounded up and down by another piece of machinery. The sound made their teeth shudder. Then there was a dark passageway, and a set of steps leading up into utter blackness. A faint riffle of fresh air down the steps made Sweetheart lift her snout, sniffing, and Rollo wag his tail against Emilia’s legs.

  A big, dark, burly man sat on a chair inside a little office, laboriously going over a sheaf of papers, a quill stuck behind his ear, his brows drawn so close over his eyes they could not be seen. Slowly, silently, the children tiptoed past, Emilia in the lead, then Luka pulling along Sweetheart, Zizi on his shoulder, then Van and Sebastien close behind. Rollo had run on ahead, bounding eagerly up the stairs.

  The burly man looked up. His eyes fell on them, illuminated by the light streaming from the door. He stared, uncomprehending, for a long moment, then opened his mouth to yell.

  ‘Don’t!’ Van cried. ‘Please, Stevo! These are my friends.’

  Stevo stood up slowly. ‘Vandlo?’

  ‘Aye. It’s me.’ Van stepped forward into the light, lifting a hand and a stump in entreaty. ‘Please don’t give us away, Stevo.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Escaping the bad man,’ Van said. ‘He tried to burn our house down today. He hit Fairnette and twisted her arm, and then he smashed Father across the face with that steel gauntlet of his. He would have hit me too if I had not cowered away from him as far as I could get.’ There was bitter self-mockery in his voice.

  Stevo peered through the darkness. ‘It’s the Rom weans, is it? That the thief-taker is after?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Stevo stepped back. ‘Take them through then, Van.’

  Van nodded and pressed forward.

  ‘It was good to see you, Van.’

  Van looked back at his brother. ‘And you, Stevo.’

  They had taken no more than a few steps when a shout rang out behind them. ‘There they are! Call the thief-taker!’

  They spun round in fright. Another Smith brother stood at the end of the passageway, pointing at them. As another spray of bright sparks lit up the cavernous room, they saw it was the man with the miscast eye, the one Luka had christened Lazy-Eye.

  ‘Dax, no, please!’ Van cried. ‘Let us go! We’re not doing any harm.’

  His brother laughed. ‘Crawled out of your hole, have you, Van!’ he cried. ‘You always were a stupid young pup.’ He spun on his heel and seized a pitch torch and thrust it into the heart of the blazing hearth. At once a yellow flame sprang up, and he went running towards the front doors, waving the torch from side to side and shouting.

  ‘That’s torn it!’ Luka groaned. ‘Come on!’

  ‘He’s a nasty piece of work,’ Van panted, taking the steps two at a time. ‘If it hadn’t been for him taunting me all the time, I’d never have come in that day. He’s always wanted to strike it rich quick. He’ll probably demand a pretty fee for turning us in.’

  ‘If we escape, he won’t get a penny,’ Luka threw back. ‘Hang on, Zizi darling! Rough ride ahead.’ He began to leap up the stairs. The monkey clung to him tighter than ever, her tail wrapped so tight about his throat she almost strangled him.

  ‘Ease up, darling,’ he croaked. ‘I can hardly breathe.’

  There was a rush of boots behind them, then he was seized and roughly shaken. ‘Got you!’ Lazy-Eye hissed. ‘Won’t the thief-taker be pleased with me!’

  For the Want of

  a Horse

  Emilia burst out into the night air, Rollo and Sweetheart beside her, and ran past a startled group of men who were busy unloading sacks of iron ore and charcoal from a cart backed up against the upper floor of the gun foundry.

  At once she vaulted up into the driver’s seat, whistling Rollo to her. As the big dog leapt up into the cart, she turned to look for her companions. Sebastien was up beside her in a trice, kicking down someone who tried to stop him. As he seized the reins she was able to coax Sweetheart into the cart too. The horse between the shafts reared in terror at her scent, and took off at a gallop, just as Emilia grasped Van’s hand and helped haul him up.

  ‘Luka! Where’s Luka?’ Emilia cried.

  The cart swayed and jolted forward. Emilia gazed behind her desperately, but there was no sign of her cousin, only angry men chasing after them with shaken fists. ‘Luka!’ she screamed. ‘We have to go back! They’ll get him!’

  ‘It’s no use, Emilia. He got nabbed. We’ll be no use to him if we get nabbed too,’ Sebastien said, whipping up the horse so it galloped wildly round a bend in the road, leaving the gun foundry and the angry blacksmiths far behind them.

  ‘Nabbed? Luka? We have to go back! We have to rescue him.’

  ‘There’s a dozen men on our heels, Emilia. We’ll just be caught too.’

  Emilia tried to grab the reins, to turn the bolting horse around, but Sebastien elbowed her away. ‘You’ll have us over! Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘We need to go back!’ Again Emilia sought to grab the reins, but Sebastien would not let her. ‘We can’t just leave him. Pull up the cart!’

  ‘But Emilia . . .’

  ‘Pull up the cart!’

  Reluctantly Sebastien gathered in the reins, bringing the snorting, sweating horse to a gradual halt. Emilia jumped down from the cart, Rollo following her.

  ‘Emilia, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going back for Luka,’ she said in a muffled tone.

  ‘Emilia . . .’

  ‘You go on. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Rollo and Sweetheart.’ She tried to coax the big bear out of the cart but Sweetheart was tired of running, and refused to budge.

  ‘Emilia, you’ll be caught. Don’t go,’ Van said, sounding scared.

  ‘I’m not leaving Luka behind!’

  ‘I tell you what,’ Sebastien said. ‘I’ll tie up the horse and cart, here in the shadows where it won’t be seen, and we’ll leave Van here to guard it. You and I will go back together, all right?’

  Emilia could have wept with relief. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ she cried.

  ‘We’ll leave the bear here,’ Sebastien said firmly. ‘She’s a bloody nuisance!’

  ‘No, she’s not, she’s a sweetheart,’ Emilia protested, smiling through her tears.

  ‘After her, I think I’d find the worst scold in the world a sweetheart,’ Sebastien said. ‘Beatrice will find me a most forgiving husband!’

  Emilia could only smile weakl
y.

  Sweetheart was bribed to leave the cart and curl up some distance away with some broken pieces of honeycomb that Emilia had hidden in her pocket and forgotten about. With the bear downwind, the horse relaxed and dropped its head to crop the grass, its reins tethered to a low branch. Van was not happy about being left all on his own in the cold, damp, misty darkness, but when Emilia promised to leave Rollo with him, he consented, rather shakily.

  Then Emilia and Sebastien together went hurrying back towards the gun foundry, their only weapons the last of Van’s smoke bombs and Emilia’s good luck charms.

  Luka had found himself being dragged brutally back down the stairs, with as little concern as if he was a sack of iron ore and not a living, breathing boy. Lazy-Eye had him by the arm and the neck. The bag bumped uncomfortably underneath him, digging into him. Zizi leapt off his shoulder and fled into the darkness, shrieking in terror. Luka tried to fight, but it was no use. Dax was twice as tall and three times as broad, and shook him like a terrier shook a rat, until Luka felt he might faint.

  He was dragged out into the main chamber, and there was Coldham, striding in from outside, his mouth stretched in a mirthless grin.

  ‘Well done, Smith,’ Coldham said, and tossed him a coin. ‘Where’s the witch-girl?’

  ‘Escaped up the stairs,’ Dax replied, biting into the coin with his crooked, discoloured teeth.

  Coldham seized Luka and snapped a cold iron handcuff about his wrist. In a second he was chained to one of the rungs of the ladder. ‘You can wait and sweat it out,’ Coldham said, grinning. ‘I’ll go get the witch-girl. Maybe we’ll see her burn tonight. Plenty of fire here.’

  Even as Luka’s stomach dropped towards his bowels in a cold rush of terror, Coldham was gone, running towards the steps, all the men racing after him, eager to win a gold coin too. Dax went with them, showing them the way. Luka was left alone.

  He twisted this way and that, but the iron handcuffs bit into him cruelly. He glanced around. The molten-gold river of iron ore streamed ceaselessly from above. But there was no one left to tend it. He was all alone.

  ‘Zizi?’ he called. ‘Where are you, monkey girl?’

  No sound but the roar of the fire, the hiss of the bellows, the clang clang boom boom of the hammers.

  He whistled. ‘Zizi?’

  Down she came from the vast fretwork of shadows above, quick and silent. She leapt onto his shoulder and seized his ear in her paw, scolding him. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispered. ‘Zizi. In the pack. Keys. Find the keys.’

  Zizi stared at him with bright, puzzled eyes. He tried to mimic turning a key with his hand, but it was bent up behind him. ‘Keys, darling girl. Keys,’ he said.

  It took an agonisingly long time, but at last Zizi seemed to understand, and delved her paw into the pack on his back. She rummaged around, then withdrew the bread Fairnette had packed for them and tried to stuff it in his mouth.

  ‘No, Zizi, no, keys.’ Luka turned his face away, spitting out the bread.

  The little monkey pulled out the ladle, the rusty old knife, an apple – which she ate, offering Luka the occasional bite – Maggie’s tarot cards, and at last, the keys.

  ‘Aye, that’s it, darling! Good girl. Zizi. Unlock the padlock. Can you do it? Unlock the padlock.’ Again he tried to mime what to do, but Zizi was too scared to listen. She clung to Luka’s shoulder, shivering. He repeated his words, trying not to let his desperation ring through his voice. At last Zizi understood. She swung over to the ladder, hung upside down and deftly unlocked the padlock.

  ‘I knew those keys would come in handy,’ Luka said, and dropped them back in his pack, along with the handcuffs. Then, with Zizi on his shoulder once more, he climbed quickly and easily up the ladder towards the mouth of the chimney so far above.

  Emilia and Sebastien crept slowly through the undergrowth, their eyes fixed on the gun foundry. It was lit up with a red glare, the tiny black men running and shouting and gesticulating before it looking like shadow puppets made with fingers in front of a candle.

  Coldham was shouting in utter fury. ‘Get me a horse, now!’ he bellowed. ‘That girl is a witch, a servant of the Devil! If she escapes me again, I’ll flay the skin from your backs myself!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, there is no horse,’ Lazy-Eye said nervously. ‘There’s no stable here. You’ll have to go back to the inn.’

  ‘Fools! Idiots! Nincompoops!’ Coldham shouted, shaking his gauntleted fist.

  ‘Where’s Luka?’ Sebastien whispered.

  Emilia did not answer. She stared down at the red and black marionette stage, all her senses strained to breaking point. Unconsciously her fingers sought the golden coin, then skipped rapidly round to the lightning bolt charm. There was a sudden burst of bright embers from the chimney, and she saw, fleetingly, the silhouette of a thin boy with a monkey crouched on his shoulder, climbing out of the chimney. Her breath rushed out of her in a sigh.

  ‘There! He’s there!’

  She watched as Luka sidled along the roof of the gun foundry, about ten feet above Coldham’s head. Every time the red light flared high, her heart stopped, but he was not seen. Emilia closed her eyes and traced her fingers round and round the cat’s eye shell. Once again, a damp mist swirled up, hiding Luka from view.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ Sebastien whispered, dismayed.

  Emilia did not reply, focusing all her attention on keeping the mist high and Luka hidden from view.

  A twig cracked nearby.

  ‘Ssssssh,’ Emilia said, very softly. ‘Luka, here!’

  ‘Criminy, I can’t believe I found you,’ he whispered, creeping up beside her. ‘What’s the odds?’

  She smiled at him and gave his shoulder a little rub. ‘Pretty good so far,’ she answered.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Got us a horse and cart,’ she whispered back. ‘Come on! Coldham will be on our trail all too soon. We’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘On to London now!’ Luka said exultantly, then turned on Sebastien. ‘Don’t you dare tell your father that!’

  ‘I won’t!’ he promised, a smile in his voice. ‘Nor Nadine!’

  ‘Nasty little cat,’ Emilia said, the worst insult she could think of.

  They found Van sitting nervously in the cart, rubbing Rollo’s ears between the fingers of his hand. ‘All’s well!’ Emilia cried joyfully. ‘We’ve got Luka, and Coldham’s stuck for the moment. Let’s get going!’

  They coaxed Sweetheart back into the cart, and set off up the road, the horse knowing its way despite the darkness and mist.

  ‘If you drop us off at the next crossroads, I’ll make sure Van gets home safely,’ Sebastien said. ‘Then I’ll be seeing you at the end of the month, like I promised.’

  ‘Thanks, Sebastien,’ Emilia said gratefully.

  ‘Do you know yet how you’re going to get your family out?’ he asked.

  Luka sighed and shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve discovered the keys we copied from Coldham fit his handcuffs, so I’m guessing that means they don’t fit the doors to the gaol,’ he said wryly, ‘and we used most of our sleeping drug on the dogs. So I suppose the answer is no.’

  ‘We’ve got five of the charms now, though,’ Emilia said exuberantly, ‘and friends who’ve promised to help us.’

  ‘And maybe we can find that lawyer fellow the Graylings girl married,’ Luka said. ‘A lawyer could be just what we need!’

  Emilia thought of the last of the charms, the butterfly in amber. It meant change and transformation, Maggie had said. It made her heart leap with hope.

  The cart crested a high hill and came to a crossroads. There was a way-stone, with a big letter carved so deep into it they could see it even in the dark, and an arrow pointing to the north. Emilia had never learnt to read but she had seen this letter on way-stones before. It looked like a man sitting down, at ease, his legs stretched out before him. It stood for London, she knew, where everyone was so rich they rode about in carriages, instead
of walking on their own two feet.

  She smiled.

  T h e F a c t s b e h i n d t h e F i c t i o n

  The Weald is an area of hilly country south of London, most of it in the county of Sussex. Small streams have cut valleys into the landscape, and a belt of iron-bearing rock can be found near the surface in many places.

  Its particular geography means that iron has been made in the Weald since Roman times. Iron ore could be mined from the rock, the trees of the forests could be cut down to make charcoal, and the numerous streams were dammed up and fitted with huge waterwheels to provide power for the bellows and hammers of the forges and furnaces.

  In Stuart times, the Weald was the main iron-producing region in Britain. At the outbreak of the Civil War, it was the first area to be secured by the Parliamentarians, because of the importance of the iron industry in the production of guns, cannons and cannonballs. At this time English cannons were the best in the world, due perhaps to the moulds which were made from the local Sussex clay.

  The iron foundry at Horsmonden was the largest in the Weald. It was owned by John Browne, and he and his two hundred workers produced guns for the army and the navy. In 1638 King Charles I visited the foundry to watch a cannon being cast. It was a forty-two inch long, bronze four-pounder, and is now preserved in the Tower of London.

  During the Civil War, the Horsmonden foundry provided weapons for both sides of the conflict, and also sold them overseas, even to England’s enemies. The foundry’s blast furnace dominated the valley, being at least three storeys high, and constantly at work. In 1669, Edward Browne wrote ‘the flames rush forth with such violence . . . that they are seen about the country at ten miles distance’.

  The foundry closed in 1685, and all that remains to show where it stood is the Furnace Pond, once the largest in the Weald, and the local pub, now called the Gun and Spit.

  Today, the ruins of furnaces and forges, scatterings of slag, and the ponds that supplied the water for bellows and hammers are dotted all over the landscape of the Weald. In some places only the names remain, like Upper Forge Pond, Hammerwood, Gun Green, Furnace Farm, Smithy Wood, Minepit Lane and Cinder Cross, all meaning nothing unless you know the history of the Weald.