The Mapmakers' Race

by Eirlys Hunter

  “You can eat boiled grass for all I care,” Beckett growled.

  A few minutes later there was a terrible howl from the food store. He’d found the cheese hacked into and left unwrapped, the raisin tin lighter than it had been, and, worst of all, that someone had helped themselves to the bag of sugar and left it open. A procession of ants was carrying it away, grain by grain.

  “That’s it,” he said in an icy voice, stuffing his greatcoat into his rucksack. “You all promised, but it seems the promise of a Santander isn’t worth two ears of barley. If I can’t trust you, I can’t travel with you, so I’m going home. Your mother can get her rucksack and sleeping bag back when you return the donkeys. If you return the donkeys.”

  *

  When Joe walked into their camp expecting to be hailed a hero, Humphrey hurled himself at him, red-eyed and sobbing.

  “Beckett’s gone,” he cried. “Sal shouted and Beckett’s gone.”

  “Going, going, gone,” Carrot shrieked, digging her claws into Joe’s arm.

  Before Joe could even open his mouth to ask what happened, Sal screamed at him to help Francie. “Quick!”

  Treacle had slipped his halter and galloped off. Joe snatched up the halter and caught up with Francie and together they chased after the donkey, skidding and sliding downhill. When at last Treacle paused, it was in the middle of a patch of stinging pinksap. He waited until Joe had the halter over his ears then he ducked away.

  Finally, as the sky grew dark, Treacle allowed himself to be cornered and led back up the hill.

  Joe was shaking with tiredness when he flopped down by the fire, legs and arms all scratched and itchy, for a dinner of burnt, sugar-less porridge.

  “So, what happened?”

  Sal told Joe what Beckett had said.

  “I took a bit of cheese and some raisins,” Joe admitted.

  “So did I.” Sal had calmed down and just looked sad.

  “And me. A little bit. Actually, quite a lot of little bits of sugar,” said Humph.

  “So did Francie. We all did,” said Joe, putting his arm around Humph.

  “But we promised,” said Sal. “And we haven’t got much food. Beckett’s right, we’ve got to ration it.”

  “And now we haven’t got Beckett, because he can’t trust us.” There was an rock in Joe’s throat. “We didn’t think. We should’ve thought. We have to be able to trust each other.”

  “That’s what I meant before,” said Sal. “About having to think like a grown-up. I don’t know if I can. Fourteen isn’t old enough.”

  Joe shivered. The dark seemed darker and scarier than before. “I wish he was here.”

  “Tell him!” said Humphrey. “Shout.”

  Joe climbed onto a rock and shouted “Beckett! Beckett! We’re sorry. Come back. Please!” as loudly as he could. His voice echoed down the dark valley into silence. Joe could usually see the bright side of everything, but going on without Beckett felt like a stomach-knotting, terrifying disaster.

  “And we’ve still got twenty-one days to go,” said Joe.

  They put more wood on the fire and huddled together, but it was a long time before anyone slept.

  “Joe? Joe?” Sal was shaking his shoulder.

  “What? I’m asleep.”

  “We’ll have to go back. We can’t do it without him.”

  Joe rolled onto his side. He was surprised at how relieved he felt. “I know. In the morning. Back to Grand Prospect and find Ma. It was a stupid idea, anyway.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  LAZY LUMMOCKS

  But when they woke up, there was Beckett, squatting by the fire making porridge.

  “A second chance,” he said as he stirred the pot. “Because I really want that railway and Francie’s maps are the only way to make that happen. But it’s like this. If we can get to New Coalhaven in twenty-one days, there’s enough for porridge every morning and one loaf of bread each day, so that’s two slices of bread each for lunch. I can make the rest stretch to maybe fifteen dinners. And that’s it.” He looked them all in the eye.

  “So some days we won’t have dinner?” said Sal.

  Carrot swooped down onto Beckett’s head, screeching, “Dinner!”

  “Ouch!” Beckett detached the parrot and set her down on a bit of firewood. “Not unless we can catch a rabbit or a fish. And as long as we get to New Coalhaven in twenty-one days. If it takes any longer, there’ll be no breakfast or lunch either. I think we can just make it. But only if you promise that you won’t touch the supplies, and you mean it.”

  They promised, and this time they did mean it.

  “Maybe we can kill a deer?” Joe said.

  Beckett laughed. “Let me know when you’ve cornered one and I’ll crack it over the head with the spade.”

  “We realised we couldn’t do it without you,” said Sal, “so we’d decided to go back—but now … Joe?”

  The sun was shining and Joe’s legs felt strong again.

  “Onwards!”

  Francie clapped.

  “Then let’s have breakfast!” said Beckett.

  While they ate, Joe told them about seeing Roger and his Ruffians resting between his markers. “It shows they must think this is a good way to come.”

  “Maybe we can follow their markers for a bit,” suggested Beckett.

  They loaded up the donkeys and slogged up to the ridge. There was no wind and once again Joe was dripping with sweat as he climbed. Humphrey led the way, always the first one to spot the orange strips that hung from branches to beckon them on. The others followed in a long straggly line, with Sal and the altimeter at the back.

  They rested at the top and admired the way they’d come and tried not to think about how far there was to go. Joe’s markers led into the broad valley, which stretched north for miles with Crocodile Ridge to the right.

  Beckett squinted into the distance then looked at Joe. “What did you call this valley?”

  “Treeless Valley. Because it is.”

  “Treeless.” Beckett kept looking at Joe. “So, how do you think we’ll be cooking tonight?”

  Beckett and Joe retraced their steps with Treacle, down and down, until they were in the forest again. “Why didn’t you mention no trees?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was important.” Joe piled up dead branches.

  “Well, no, not if you don’t mind going without meals, and eating your oats mixed with cold water. You need to think.”

  Joe was stung. “But I think all the time—about the way to go, and all the clues that come from plants and clouds and streams.”

  Beckett sighed. “Look, if we make it to New Coalhaven, it’ll be because you and I keep thinking. I should have had my catapult ready. You should have remembered to say about needing to collect firewood. All right?”

  Joe hadn’t realised it before but it was true: Francie and Sal liked to be warm and dry but they wouldn’t necessarily plan ahead to make that happen. They thought about maps and mathematics, which weren’t really everyday things. Beckett was very good at everyday thinking, thank goodness, and he was right: Joe needed to be good at that, too.

  “All right.”

  They piled fallen branches across Treacle’s baskets.

  “Just as well Humphrey likes walking,” said Beckett. “No riding for him today.”

  One good thing happened while they were away getting wood: Francie made friends with Dumpling. Up until then she’d avoided the donkeys, but when Dumpling was standing quietly, Francie had moved closer. She’d understood something, and when Beckett got back she showed him the tube of salt. When he said yes, she shook some salt onto her hand for Dumpling to lick, and gave some to Treacle as well. She poured water into the bucket from the barrel and let them both drink, and when it was time to move again, she picked up Dumpling’s halter, and Dumpling allowed herself to be led. Francie seemed to know when the donkeys needed to rest, and when they needed to be encouraged to keep moving. She watched where Dumpling preferred to put her
hooves, leading her left or right to avoid soft ground or a too-big step up, and the donkeys seemed eager to follow her.

  Now he didn’t have to take charge of the donkeys, Beckett could roam. He disappeared that afternoon, and when he caught up again at dusk he was singing, “Three ducks swimming on a pond. But now there’s only one.”

  He dropped two floppy ducks at Sal’s feet. “I caught them. You can pluck them.”

  Joe thought Sal was going to throw them at Beckett, but she didn’t, probably because she didn’t like touching dead things. She glared at him, steadied one of the limp bodies under the toe of her boot, pinched her mouth and tugged at a tail feather. Nothing happened.

  “Show us?” Joe asked quickly. “We’ll do it, just show us.”

  Beckett sighed. “Reckon it’s going to be a long time before we eat.”

  First they had to light a fire and boil some water, then they dunked the ducks in the water by their feet, so the feathers pulled out more easily. It took ages and there were still lots of tiny poky feathers sticking out of the skin. Beckett showed Joe how to burn them off with a stick from the fire, and he cut off the heads and the feet.

  Then Beckett asked Sal if she was going to gut them.

  She looked up from her notebook. “I’d rather starve.”

  “Suit yourself.” Beckett pulled the birds’ guts out.

  “Stinky Malinky!” Carrot flapped away from the revolting smell. Joe grabbed the spade and buried the guts as fast as he could.

  Beckett pricked the ducks’ skin with the tip of his knife, then he wetted a straight stick and threaded it right through the ducks where their heads and tails had been. “Guess what? I saw those Ruffians of Roger Rumplebum. They’re camped just back there. They must’ve hidden and let us pass them. Now, why would they do that?”

  Joe frowned. Why would they?

  Sal jumped up. “I bet you a box of barley sugar that they’re following your silks!”

  “Stealing my route!” said Joe.

  Beckett nodded and pushed a forked stick into the ground either side of the fire. “That’s what I was figuring, too. Lazy lummocks. They’ll follow your silks until the last minute and then they’ll charge past us to the finish line.” He looked thoughtful. “No hurry, but we may be needing a plan.”

  Humph pointed to a pinprick of red light to the south-west. The Ruffians’ fire.

  “Forget about them,” said Beckett “Let’s get these ducks roasting.”

  He balanced the ducks’ stick on the two forks. The fat sizzled and spat onto the glowing coals and the smell of the roasting meat was, they all agreed, the most delicious smell in the whole world—even better than the smell of Beckett’s bread baking.

  When Beckett finally declared that the ducks were cooked, and shared the meat out into five bowls, Sal looked very relieved, and thanked him.

  “Delicious. Bet those Rascals’ dinner isn’t half as good.” Joe sucked the last bit of juicy deliciousness off every little bone. “You should open a restaurant, Beckett.”

  Beckett nodded. “I’d like that. Maybe I’ll cook for the dining car on the train and when it steams through here, I’ll remember these ducks.”

  Joe couldn’t imagine a train crossing this wild moor. The donkeys whinnied in the darkness. The wind was getting up and the slice of moon kept disappearing behind clouds. Then far away something howled, and howled again.

  “What was that?” whispered Humphrey.

  “Maybe those Ruffians have a dog with them,” said Beckett. “Whatever it is, it’s a long way away.”

  Which was just as well, Joe thought, because it sounded like something fiercer than a dog.

  Humph said he was going to tell a story. Humph’s story went like this:

  “Once upon a time there was a magic tent and every time you put it up you found something surprising in it.”

  “What sort of something?” asked Beckett.

  “A chocolate pudding one time, and another time a chicken pie, and once a baby tiger.”

  “What happened to the baby tiger?” asked Joe.

  “It said, ‘Can I have some milk?’ And it had some milk then it ran away to find its mother.”

  “Did it find its mother?” said Sal.

  “Yes. Its mother was waiting for it at the top of a big tree and she hugged her baby tiger and said stop hiding in tents. The end.”

  “Craziest story I ever heard,” said Beckett. “Twenty days to go.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A BUCKET OF DONKEY DUNG

  “I name you the Impenetrable Cliffs of Doom,” said Beckett. It was a good name. As they got closer they could see that they really were impenetrable. There was no way through, round or over the wall of jagged cliffs.

  Joe sighed. “Back we go.”

  Reluctantly they retraced their steps. They were nearly all the way back to where they’d eaten the ducks when Roger Rumpledown materialised out of the heather and called to them. The rest of his team were lounging about by one of Joe’s silks, playing a card game.

  “Well, here you are at last. We saw you’d turned around by the cliffs so we waited. Not your best route, young Santander. You’ve wasted us half a day.”

  Joe tore his silk from the bush. “Did we ask you to follow us?”

  Roger snorted with laughter, displaying a gold tooth. “Chop-chop now. No more dawdling.”

  The rest of the Ruffians glanced up from their game. “Yeah, hurry up, you lot,” they called.

  Sal was furious. “You are the rudest, laziest, most outrageous excuses for humans that ever existed.” The men just laughed.

  “Get on with your work,” Carrot ordered. She flew down onto the playing cards, scattering them with her wings and claws. “Chop-chop.” She danced around on the cards then flew up, out of reach of the men’s grabbing hands, carrying the king of spades in her beak and leaving a trail of white smears all over the cards on the ground.

  Humphrey squealed with delight. “She plopped on them!”

  The men jumped up, swearing and waving their fists, and one of them pulled out a pistol and fired it. There was pandemonium. Humph screamed and ran at the man with the gun, Beckett grabbed Humph and held him, kicking and wriggling; the donkeys bucked and brayed, men’s voices boomed, and the white horse galloped in circles with Carrot riding on its nose.

  The stolen card fluttered to the ground and as a Ruffian tried to snatch it up, the horse stood on his hand. Sal heard some swear words she’d never heard before.

  She bellowed at the others to follow Francie, who was leading the donkeys away, and she planted herself in front of the man with the pistol.

  “If you fire that thing again, you’ll have to put a bullet through me. Come on, Carrot, we’ve got a race to win.” Carrot flew to her hand.

  “And you,” Sal stabbed a finger towards Roger Rumpledown, “are a disgrace to explorers. You should be ashamed.”

  She was so angry she wouldn’t have been surprised if a flame had blasted from her finger and scorched Roger Rumpledown, but no such luck. He just laughed at her as she hurried after the others.

  “I could kill that man,” said Joe.

  “I just want to make him sorry,” said Sal as soon as they were well out of earshot.

  “We could stop marking the trail,” said Beckett.

  “But if we need to backtrack because of a dead end—like today—then we’ll need the markers,” said Joe. “And if our route gets chosen it’ll help the surveyors.”

  “And for Ma coming,” said Humph.

  “Right.” Beckett glanced back at the Ruffians. “Then what we need to do is to lead them astray.”

  By the time they’d found an easy path up onto Crocodile Ridge, they’d made a plan. They walked along the ridge for the rest of the day, and every time they had a clear view back they could see the Ruffians, trailing along in the distance behind them.

  “Tomorrow they’ll be sorry,” said Joe. “Nineteen days to go.”

  The next morning, as
soon as it was light enough to see, Joe set off down the side of the ridge with his rucksack, his silks and the bucket, which he’d filled with donkey dung. The others packed up the campsite and hid the donkeys in a cleft in the rock.

  They watched from their hiding place as the Ruffians followed Joe’s silks down the slope and disappeared under the trees. When they were safely out of sight the Santander team, minus Joe, set off again, being careful to stay below the ridgeline so they’d be harder to spot.

  Meanwhile, Joe marked the false trail with his silks, and now and then shook a little pile of donkey dung out of the bucket. He led the Ruffians across a field of boulders that ended abruptly at a sheer drop, then down a gully that led to a river. Finally he tied a few silks along the river bank to tempt the Ruffians south, the opposite direction to the way they needed to go.

  Joe was tired, and a very long way from the others. First, he needed to get back to the ridge. He started to climb. Up a steep bank, clinging on to roots and trunks. Out of the trees, breathless, arms aching. Up again, over rocks. Sore, sore, sore.

  At last he was back at the top. Another half hour brought him to where the donkeys had been hidden, then he was following the real donkey dung trail, checking his compass often to be sure. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of the lake that Francie had drawn at the top of her sketch map after flying, shimmering in the distance to the north. She’d called it Finger Lake. That’s where they were trying to get to tonight.

  It was twilight when Carrot spotted him and flew, shrieking, from Beckett’s shoulder to Joe’s. Humphrey ran to hug him.

  “Good work!” Beckett took the bucket. “One team far behind us. Just four to go.”

  Joe swayed with exhaustion, but they couldn’t stop yet because the ground was squidgy under their boots—far too soggy to lay out the bedrolls. They had to keep going.

  “You’ve got mettle, Joseph Santander. I’m impressed.” Beckett gave Joe a handful of raisins and shooed Carrot away. “Go and find yourself some insects.”

  Joe grunted; he was too tired to speak. Almost too tired to chew. He just squelched on, legs aching, back aching, feet aching; left right, left right. Francie took one of his elbows and steered him gently.