When Beckett unclipped the lid of the pudding tin they were all overwhelmed by the cinnamon-y, clove-y, nutmeg-y smell of Christmas. The pudding was rich, dark and delicious but Joe found it hard to swallow because of the lump in his throat. The reminder of Christmas was a reminder of Ma and Pa and their old life as a family. He wasn’t cold any more, and his stomach had food in it, but he was tired, and he was homesick and unbearably sad. He burrowed down into his sleeping bag, blinking away the tears that kept welling up behind his eyelids. Francie stroked his hair just like Ma did sometimes.
“Smells like rain in the air.” Beckett pulled the top tarpaulin tight over them all. “And it’s fourteen days to go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TUMBLING DOWN—JUST LIKE THE RAIN
The rain was just a drizzle when they woke, but up in the mountains it must have been pouring, because the river was rising fast. Their crossing place was already a wild whirlpool.
“We were so lucky!” said Beckett.
Joe didn’t feel lucky, he mostly felt miserable as he pulled his wet boots on over his damp socks and tried to tie the laces with cold fingers. Everything was sodden so the poor donkeys’ loads were heavier than ever. Beckett and Francie coaxed one donkey each. Carrot hitched a ride on Joe’s head, under Ma’s chimney-pot hat, her claws tickling his scalp.
Joe tried to work out which way to go. The train would go into a tunnel, but which way should the path go? He couldn’t see far enough to be sure; all he knew was up and up. The valley side had sprouted small streams and waterfalls, and the donkeys needed a lot of urging before they’d slosh and stumble through the freezing water. Humph squelched behind Joe in his yellow oversized rain cape and Joe gave him a hand getting over the bigger streams. Everyone slithered and slid; their boots became heavy with mud again, and Sal had to keep stopping to scrape the mud off the wheel of the altimeter. They plodded on.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Beckett, who had found a strong stick to help him walk, but was still limping on both feet. “Let me remind you why we are suffering this torture.” He paused for breath, then carried on up the hill. “It’s so nobody will have to walk this way ever again! Trains will take us everywhere!”
“Hooray!” said Humphrey.
“In the future it’ll only take one day to get through these mountains,” Beckett continued. “And once there are trains, there’ll be other engines too. These mountains won’t be wild any more.” He looked very happy with that thought. “There’ll be inns and markets, everything modern and comfortable. And no more hard work for anyone. All the hard work will be done by machines.”
“Like what?” Humph asked.
“Machines for harvesting and mining. Machines to chop trees into firewood, and for fetching water, and cooking. Maybe even a machine to carry me from my gate to the train.”
“Machines for making machines?” said Humph.
“Bound to be! And if we want to see the view from the top of a mountain, a machine will just whisk us up there.”
“A machine to pluck and gut ducks would be something,” said Sal.
Joe called to Francie, “I want a flying machine so I can see what you see,” and she smiled. They climbed on, more cheerfully.
The clouds swirled thicker as they climbed. Up and up. Then they were higher than the bush line, scrambling over rocks. The wind sent Beckett’s top hat flying. He snatched it out of the air just in time, collapsed it and stowed it in his rucksack. Joe used his compass because he could only see a few yards ahead. On they went.
At last Joe arrived at what he hoped was the top. He thought he’d have a quick pee before the others caught up, so he put his gloves in his pocket and was fumbling at his belt with frozen fingers when the ground disappeared and he was falling.
He skidded and slid, faster and faster. At first he was on his feet, then on his back with stones showering down all around him, and then he was rolling over and over, desperately trying to grip onto something—anything—to break his fall. He stopped, thumping hard and painfully up against a boulder.
The sound of falling rocks died away and for a moment there was silence in the mist. He felt waves of fear and panic roll towards him from Francie. He checked that he was all right—legs worked, arms worked—then sent reassuring thoughts back to her.
The sound of Sal yelling and Humph screaming was muffled by the fog.
“I’m all right.” His voice was just a whisper. He took a few breaths and tried again. “I’m all right. I think.”
He couldn’t see anything but thick white cloud. He turned cautiously onto his hands and knees. His hands were bleeding. His head felt empty—no hat. No Carrot.
He tried climbing up, digging his toes into the crumbly scree, but every move dislodged stones that skittered down the slope and then fell, lost in the silent void. Then he slithered back, too. He thought it was all over as one foot flailed out into nothing, but the other wedged up against the boulder. The fingers of his right hand found a lip of rock, and the left hand a tiny crack.
“You’ll have to pull me up,” he shouted.
“But how can we?” Sal’s voice was shaky. “You’ve got the rope.”
The coil of rope was still over Joe’s shoulder. Maybe he could fix it to the boulder that had stopped his fall, but then the only way to go would be down into the misty nothing. He imagined his skeleton dangling at the end of the rope forever.
“Concentrate,” he told himself.
Carrot landed on his head and massaged her claws into his scalp.
Up above, Sal’s voice was getting more and more panicky. “You’ve got to think!”
“I can’t even move.” His voice quavered.
Humph said, “Francie’s drawing an idea.”
There was a moment’s silence then a hubbub of voices again.
“But where’s Carrot?” Beckett’s voice.
“Here. Trying to make a hole in my head.”
“There may be a way.” Beckett again.
“Yes. You can do it! Good one, Francie.” Sal.
“What? What?” Joe was getting cramps. The pain in his wedged foot was agonising; he had to shift his weight, but as soon as he moved his other foot he sent a shower of stones bouncing away into the abyss. Heart thumping, he shifted back to the way he’d been balanced before, but the leg that was holding him up was shaking now.
“Hurry. I can’t balance here much longer.”
They told him Francie’s plan. It had to work. But first he’d have to get his rucksack round onto his front so he could open it, and hope that nothing had fallen out.
Slowly, gingerly, he shrugged one strap off his shoulder, then let go of the crack with his left hand for a moment while he slipped his arm through. He gripped it again and braced himself as the weight of his bag slid down his arm to hang from his right elbow. Heavy. A good sign. He let go of the crack again and quickly reached under his tummy to pull the pack in under him. The hand clinging to the lip of rock was starting to shake too.
He heard his father’s voice in his head: Steady now, nice and easy, don’t rush, Joe.
His fingers felt their way into the outside pocket and found the bag of silks. No good. They were already cut and all too short. He managed to get the main bag unbuckled and slid his hand in. A candle. His mug. His spoon, and … the ball of twine! He wriggled it up, pulled the end loose and held it between his teeth. Then he felt for Carrot.
“Good bird.” He lifted her from his head and sat her on the rucksack.
“How you doing?” asked Sal.
To tie the twine around Carrot’s leg he needed two hands. But he couldn’t let go of the lip of rock.
“Trying.”
His fingers were so cold he couldn’t feel anything more than a dull throb. He tried to twitch the twine into a loop, and nudge another loop through but it flopped out.
“Still trying.”
His hands were shaking too much. He tried again. And again.
He couldn’t do it.
>
“Idiot!” Carrot pecked at his hand and the end of the twine fell out of his stiff fingers. The parrot snatched it up in her beak.
“She’s got it!”
From above came the rattle of the lid being taken off the raisin jar—a sound that was guaranteed to bring Carrot flying. Joe quickly unspooled the ball of twine.
Carrot looked him in the eye as if to say, “Leave it to me!” then she stretched her wings and flew up, a flash of orange in the mist. Shouted messages let him know that she’d delivered the twine and now all Joe had to do was tie the other end to the rope.
He leaned into the cliff-face and rested against it for a moment, then found the end of the rope and tried to knot the twine to it. It was impossible. He couldn’t make his fingers do what he wanted; his whole body was shaking and his leg was agony. He fumbled, dropped the twine; managed to find it again, dropped the end of the rope. It was just too hard.
It flashed into his mind that there was an infinite drop behind him. He could just let go and in a few seconds it would all be over, but once again he heard his father’s voice in his head saying, Steady now. I know you can do it.
This time he tucked the rope under his armpit, so the end stuck up near his mouth. Then he used his teeth and lips as well as his fingers to loop the twine around the bristly end.
Finally, he called to the others to pull, and the rope snaked up into the clouds. They pulled it all up, because they needed to make a loop in it.
“Just hurry.” He felt faint. The shaking was worse. You can do it; you can do it.
And now the question was, would the rope be long enough? If it wasn’t he was done for. Soon the others shouted that the rope was on the way down and at last the loop appeared, all ready to push his arms through, just above him.
“Give me a bit more?”
But that was all the rope there was.
He stretched. It was just out of reach. He tried to move his foot up the rock. For a horrible moment he thought his boot was wedged so tightly that even if he could reach the rope his foot would be trapped. He wriggled it until he felt the boot move.
He had to leave his boulder and haul himself up the half yard or so to the rope above him. Slowly, slowly he wormed his way up the crumbling cliff until one finger was hooked over the rope.
One chance.
“Brace yourselves,” he called. “Three, two, one, go!”
Joe propelled himself upwards and shoved his arm through the loop. He was hanging from his elbow, then his other arm was through the loop and his head and shoulders followed.
“Pull!”
There was a scrum of arms and legs when he landed on solid ground at the top. Humph hugged his head and Francie hugged his shoulders fiercely. Sal started to yell at him for forgetting to take elementary precautions, but then Beckett called him a stupid lemming, and she turned on Beckett instead, and told him to shut up and that he hadn’t got a clue.
“Sorry. Very sorry. I needed a pee, so stupid,” Joe explained when he had some breath. “The rope was just long enough! And I nearly cut it last night. Lucky!”
“Lucky you didn’t get your pants down, or your bum would be sore like your hands,” said Humph.
They were sore. His nails were ripped and his palms and fingers were gashed and packed with grit. His knees and elbows were grazed, too.
“We need to clean those cuts,” said Beckett.
“You’d be dead if it wasn’t for Carrot,” said Sal, who was sitting with her head between her knees.
“Ride on my shoulder, Carrot. Much safer,” said Beckett.
“Joe, look!” squealed Humph. He was lying on his stomach looking over the edge.
“Get back!” Sal grabbed his ankle.
The cloud had parted and now they could see the skid marks Joe had made down the slope and the boulder he’d fallen against. It was the only thing that could have broken his fall on the entire cliff face. Beyond was a drop of hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet.
Beckett stepped back from the edge and sat down, trembling, but Francie and Joe started shrieking with crazy laughter. Humph scowled at them and pummelled Joe with his fists. “You’re a bit too lucky to be funny, you stupid Joe, you.”
But they kept laughing hysterically until Sal bellowed: “Joseph Santander, you nearly killed yourself and ruined all our lives and now it’s time to STOP BEING AN IDIOT.”
Joe pulled himself together. Nearly dying wasn’t funny, but still being alive was the best feeling he’d ever had, even though his hands were throbbing. And the only reason he was alive was because he’d taken the time to unknot the rope last night. Pa would be proud.
Time to get going. The clouds were blowing away fast and he could see which way they needed to go now. This was the saddle, the narrow ridge between two valleys. He’d got to the top and gone straight over and down the other side. Instead, they needed to make their way along the ridge, and part of the way down a spur, then up again and over another ridge where a field of snow glistened white on its flank. He imagined how good it would feel to push his throbbing hands into its coldness.
“Onwards, to the snow.”
“I’m naming this saddle Joseph’s Mistake,” said Sal.
“Snow soon, Francie!” Humph beamed as if he’d arranged a special present for her.
“We must be about halfway,” said Sal.
Beckett scratched Dumpling’s nose. “Hear that? Halfway.”
When he started walking again, Joe groaned. His whole body hurt now that the shock of the fall was wearing off. But at least it still worked. And he was alive!
He whistled to himself as he picked his way along the rocky spine of the mountain, and every now and then he threw a stone over the edge. The drop was so endless that he never heard it land.
The cloud had all blown away now and the view was astonishing. He loved being so high and seeing so far—it must be close to what Francie felt like when she flew. The world was vast from above, and so empty. Endless forested valleys, and crumples of grey mountains into the far distance. He couldn’t see a single thing whichever way he looked that showed people had ever been on the earth. It felt strangely comforting to be reminded how enormous the earth was and that he was just a speck in it. It was the same feeling he got when he looked at the stars. So many, and so far away. And they’d be there forever and wouldn’t even know that people existed. He liked that.
He stopped to watch a pair of huge eagles floating below them. He could see the markings on their backs—imagine being higher than eagles!
“Yee hah!” Joe leant against the wind until it was holding him up. “Hey, Francie! I’m flying, too!”
They found a spring when they left the ridge and Beckett helped Joe wash the dirt out of his grazes. Sal unpacked the first-aid bag and found the salve and two rolls of bandage, which Beckett wrapped around Joe’s hands so they looked like fat paws.
“Lucky it wasn’t Francie. She’d never be able to draw like this,” said Joe.
“Francie would never have been so stupid,” Beckett muttered.
The only thing whistling in the afternoon was the wind, which came at them head on. They were walking along the side of the valley now, which was more sheltered than the top, but the wind grew more and more ferocious until each step was a struggle. The day seemed to go on forever. Grit stung their eyes and they shivered in their still-damp clothes as they fought to put one foot in front of the other. Joe thought it might be easier to walk inside the forest below them, but when he investigated he found it was full of crabstitch and stinging pinksap as well as crashing branches. It was safer to battle the wind in the open—and surely somewhere there must be shelter?
Carrot was blown backwards when she tried to fly. She dug her claws into Joe’s shoulder and screeched. The clouds were piling up, dark as the slates on the roof of their old house, when Humph spotted an opening in the cliff-face above them.
“Firewood,” yelled Beckett against the howl of the wind and they all ran after him to
the edge of the forest, where branches were lashing and leaves and twigs were flying everywhere.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TO THE SNOW
The world had never sounded so noisy: rain torrented beyond the cave opening, thunder crashed off the mountains, and wind wailed up the valley. Sal rearranged the clothes that were drying on the rope that they’d stretched across the cave near the fire.
“What kind of tents d’you think the Solemns have?” She spoke loudly against the storm.
“Scientific ones,” said Joe.
“Maybe they’re inflatable.” Beckett was kneading tomorrow’s dough, slap-slap, on the lid of the cooking pot.
“Maybe individual waterproof tubes, like chrysalises.” Joe tried to pincer a piece of pudding with the tips of his fingers, which was tricky with his hands encased in fat paw bandages. Everyone else had finished eating, apart from the donkeys, who nosed around unhappily at the back of the cave, looking for something edible among the branches that Sal and Beckett had piled up.
Beckett thumped the dough into the pot. “What I’m wondering is, how waterproof are mechanical horses? Has Sir Monty thought about rust?”
“And this wind would surely blow them over,” said Sal.
“We’re doing all right,” said Beckett, stretching and tipping back his top hat, which made him look even taller.
“We are!” said Joe. “My route’s great, and nobody’s maps could be as good as Francie’s.”
Sal poked the fire. “Do you think that’s true, Beckett?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t seen many maps. But I reckon Francie’s are good as any picture.”
Sal nodded. “We had lots of maps in our house, made by our Ma, and our grandpa, and our great-grandma, and more great-greats, all the way back until when they invented paper practically. Francie’s maps are way the most beautiful. I just hope my measurements are accurate.”
Francie was drawing by the light of the lantern. She took no notice. Humph was drawing, too. He was drawing monsters on the wall of the cave, with charcoal from the fire. “How many more days?”
The Mapmakers' Race Page 10
