Now he’s seen it. It’s out of reach. He wriggles.
Sore elbows, sore knees! But he’s nearly there. He kneels up, reaches out, lifts the bread. He’s about to pick up the knife when the guard stirs. Humph freezes.
The guard yawns, stretches. Arm out, his hand’s about to discover Humph—but instead of Humph, his hand finds the bread, which Humph’s holding out to him. His fingers close around it. He rolls over and falls back to sleep cuddling the loaf to his leather waistcoat.
Humph’s fingers curl around the handle of the knife.
But the Cowboy guard has stretched sideways, so now one booted leg blocks the exit—blocks Humph’s escape.
He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s close by the Cowboy’s leg.
How will he ever get past?
There is a way. Think the picture for him. Somersault Humph!
Humph struggles to his feet, then silently lowers his hands still holding the knife, until they reach the ground beyond the leg, his body a bridge. The rope between wrist and ankle lies across the cowboy’s boot. Humph shuffles his feet a little closer in. And his hands.
Head in.
He pushes off and somersaults clear over the guard’s leg and into the open, knife still clasped between his hands.
Best somersault ever! He rolls away.
Yay! Now, knife on rope, saw, saw.
Humph is surprised. But the knife’s sharp. Should I?
Humph saws, tongue sticks out between his teeth.
His arms are tired. Holds the knife still and moves his feet.
The cord gives way. Humph’s legs are free; he can stand and run. His hands are small, the rope is slack, he slips one out, then both. He’s up and off, racing down the green path.
Must tell … so tired … others. Need … join myself. First, find place, you hide.
Humph runs, then walks, then runs. He drinks at a stream then hurries on.
Up through the air above treetops. Where are they? Over the forested hills to the southwest. Her body signals like a magnetic pulse.
Downhill, farmland. Fields, farmhouse. Another roof. A barn for Humph to hide in. So tired, him too. Hold onto the picture of where he is. Hold onto the picture of the way the others must go to find him.
Down to main river, downstream to lone pine on a hillock, then up small stream east past farm with red roof, to barn in the corner of paddock.
Humph lifts the latch and drags the door open; the air’s thick and grassy. Hay’s piled up for winter, but no animals there, no reason anyone will come. Humph makes a nest and sucks his thumb.
Love you, Humph.
Up, up, but it’s too hard. Fading, fading. Up a little, then a little more. Pink and green clouds are streaked across the deepening blue. Dusk already? The ground is blurred. Fades. Disappears.
Downstream. Lone pine, up … Past farm red roof. Barn.
Down, down, pine, red, barn …
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TIME SUSPENDED
Francie didn’t move. Joe put his face close to her nose and felt the faintest wisp of breath on his cheek.
“Keep breathing, Francie.” He straightened the tarpaulin that he’d pulled over her sleeping bag to protect it from the dew, then dragged the last branch onto the fire. Sparks flew up into the early morning sky. Beyond the fire he could make out the silhouettes of trees against the dawn horizon, and hear Treacle grazing.
He stood up and stretched, sat down, then stood up again. When Francie had returned to her body, her skin had been so pale it was almost transparent, like frogspawn, and her hand had trembled so much she could hardly hold the pencil. Joe had wrapped everything warm he could find round her—he’d been so frightened he’d started shaking too.
He felt Francie’s neck. Definitely warm. Maybe too warm?
She’d drawn a map that was as basic as something Humphrey would draw. It showed a river and a couple of streams, a hill, a tree and a barn with a stick figure in it, and then she’d started retching, and her eyes had rolled back in her head and she’d become unconscious. Joe’s stomach scrunched up when he thought about it—and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Francie faint again. Best stay awake, stay on guard. Think about something else.
It was over twenty-four hours now since Humph had gone missing and longer than that since Joe had eaten anything. His tummy rumbled and growled. That was something else not to think about.
“I’m not thinking about food. Not thinking about cake. Not thinking about baked potatoes or bread. Not even thinking about porridge.” He put a blade of grass between his teeth to have something to nibble on, and turned around to warm his back.
When his back was toasty he wandered over to where the donkeys’ loads were piled up. When they’d first set off, the loads had been tidy and they’d known where everything was. Now it was a jumble. The pile was a lot smaller than at the beginning of the journey, and the difference wasn’t just the food they’d eaten. Joe only had three socks left in all the world: the brown and the blue one he was wearing, plus a stripy one with a hole in the heel. But three socks were enough, when you thought about it.
He up-ended the panniers and emptied the sacks. Ma and Pa had drilled into them that they must always be vigilant with the surveying and map-making tools and the paper and pens, and they had been; all those things were still in their cases and waterproof tubes. They’d managed to leave the spade somewhere, but Joe found the axe, which he’d looked for yesterday, all tangled up in the empty rice sack. And they still had quite a lot of rope.
He smoothed the sack out. It had a lump in it. An apple? No. Sal’s gloves.
They’d abandoned the water barrel after it started to leak, and none of them had seen the uniscope for days, but they still had the billy and the cooking pot, and a couple of knives and spoons, and some mugs and bowls.
A birdcall startled him. It was almost daybreak. Soon there was a cacophony of bird noise; it was hard to believe that this racket went on every morning and he usually slept through it. The birds woke Carrot, and she flew into the trees towards a call that sounded like “bis-cuit, bis-cuit”. Joe’s stomach growled and grumbled and he tried to remember how many days Pa and Ma had gone without food when they got stuck in a blizzard at Crater Lake. It was more than two.
Why weren’t they here now?
He shook the rest of the sacks out, just in case there was a miraculous lost cheese or a packet of dried plums they never knew they had. But the only surprising thing was a tent peg. He put it in the bucket. At least they hadn’t lost the bucket.
He thought he heard a noise and ran back to Francie; she hadn’t moved but was still breathing. He poked the fire, then loaded everything back into the donkeys’ baskets so it was shipshape and ready to go. The birds finished their morning chorus and the day grew quiet. The sun crept down the hill until it reached him, and bees followed it, buzzing round the meadow clover.
Now what? He practised some bear-scaring moves with his fire-poking stick, but then the stick broke.
What could he do? If there was a cow or a goat nearby he could milk it. But there wasn’t. He went to talk to Treacle, but he was sulking and turned and showed him his tail.
“Be like that, then. I thought you’d be pleased to have a rest. Dumpling’s just gone down the valley with Sal and Beckett to find Humph, then they’re walking back up here. It’s just more work for Dumpling. She’s not getting special food or anything.” Treacle didn’t listen.
“Come on, Sal, Beckett, Humph. It’s morning now. Come on.” How far away was that barn? How much longer could they possibly be?
He crouched over Francie and tried wishing her to wake up: please, please, please. He unpacked one of her hands from its covers and squeezed it gently, but she didn’t respond.
What if Sal and Beckett had met Cody Cole and his Cowboys? What if they’d found Humph but he’d been really well guarded? What if the Cowboys had kidnapped them, too? Or they’d had to fight? Mayb
e he should have gone, but he couldn’t leave Francie. She needed him; she didn’t need Sal or Beckett, not in the same way. And now they’d been gone all night.
Joe had never been awake all night before. He felt as if he had wind-up clockwork inside him, and all he could do was listen for Francie’s breathing and for the others coming up the hill. Maybe they’d got lost in the dark. Maybe they hadn’t found Humphrey. Maybe they’d never come back. Maybe Francie would never wake up. Maybe he was all alone in the world now. No Ma, no Pa, no Sal or Humph …
A crow swooped past. One for sorrow. Or was that magpies?
The fire was burning down. He made himself go up the slope to the edge of the forest to look for more wood. There was a dead tree lying collapsed on the ground and as he went to pick up some branches he heard a loud buzzing. Hundreds of bees were flying in and out of a hole in the trunk. It was like a jolt of lightning in his brain.
Honey!
He raced back to the baskets and threw everything out again. When he’d helped move the bee woman’s hives, she’d made him wear a special bee-keeper’s suit and a hat with a veil to keep the bees off his face. He put on Humph’s sou’wester hat and pulled Humph’s spare jersey over the top so the crown stuck through the head hole and the rest of it hung down over the hat brim like a veil. He could see well enough through the knitting.
He tucked the bottom of the jersey into the neck of his shirt to keep the bees out, pulled on Sal’s gloves and put a knife and a spoon into the billy. The bee woman had used a special smoke puffer to make the bees sleepy. He picked a glowing branch out of the fire. It barely smoked, so he threw it back and shovelled some burning embers into the cooking pot instead, then filled it up with leaves and pine needles. They smoked beautifully. He waved the smoking pot around him as he approached the bee tree. The buzzing seemed to become more ferocious as he got nearer, but he tried to stay calm because he knew bees could smell fear. He spoke softly to them.
“Please don’t sting me. I only want a little bit of your honey for my sister who needs it, and I won’t hurt you.”
He put the smoking pot on the ground near the hole and pushed it up to the trunk with his foot. The noise of the bees quietened and they moved more slowly. There were bees on his trousers now, and several crawling on the jersey in front of his face.
“Nice bees, good bees,” he murmured.
He leaned over the hole. He could see a big slab of honeycomb in there, and what looked like thousands more bees.
It would have been easier with more hands. He stuck the billycan between his knees and took the knife out. Slowly, slowly he reached forward with the knife in his gloved hand. Bees crawled over the blade as he pushed down on it and sliced off a chunk of the waxy comb, dripping with liquid golden honey. He picked up the spoon, balanced the honeycomb between the spoon and knife, and guided it into the billycan.
“Thank you, bees,” he murmured as he backed away slowly. “Thank you very much. Thank you, thank you.”
He didn’t get stung until he was back by the fire pulling the hat and jersey-veil off. He felt a sharp sting on his ear from a poor bee whose legs must have got trapped in the wool. He tried to ignore it. Francie first. He spooned up some shiny honey and smeared it on her lips, then he pushed the spoon gently into her mouth and tipped the honey onto her tongue. He sat her up so her head was resting on his shoulder, then he scooped some more honey into her mouth and scraped a bit of honeycomb onto her teeth.
“Come on, Francie, come on.”
At last he saw her swallow. It was working!
He squeezed her shoulder. “That’s it, keep going.”
Joe licked his fingers and a trickle of honey slid down his throat.
Heavenly.
A spoonful for Francie and a spoonful for him.
Then Francie moved. Her tongue flicked out round her lips.
“Yes! Good, Francie.”
She licked her lips again, and her eyelids fluttered. Her eyes opened.
“You’re awake!”
He held a cup of water to Francie’s mouth and she drank. Then she opened her mouth again like a baby bird and he popped a spoon of honey in, wax and all. She held the spoon and sucked.
He beamed at her. He’d accidently dribbled honey into her hair and across her face and there were sticky trails over their clothes, but she was awake! He licked his hands—he was sticky, too.
She looked around at the fire, the hillside, one donkey. And something else. She turned to Joe. In the distance, a deep bass rumbling sound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
STUMBLING TO THE FINISH LINE
Joe peered down the hill. He could see smoke puffing up in time with a rhythmic clanking but he still couldn’t see the machine that was making the terrifying noise. Should he try to drag Francie under the trees? It was coming nearer and nearer.
A red chimney appeared, then a bright red roof. A boiler, huge wheels. It looked a bit like a train engine, chugging relentlessly up the hill, but there were no tracks, and it wasn’t pulling carriages, just a cart. There were heads looking over the side of the cart. It was Sal, and Beckett, and Humph waving and waving. The huge red dragon came to a stop.
Joe shouted, “She’s woken up! She’s all right!” and Sal’s anxious face split into a huge grin.
Humph hurtled out of the cart and over to Joe. He seemed to have forgotten his terrifying experience already; he was far more excited by his ride and the fact he was bringing Joe food. The woman driving the engine pulled on lots of levers and climbed down and introduced herself. She was Mrs Baddeley; she’d found Humph in her barn.
She thrust a packet at Joe. A bacon sandwich! The bread was still warm. He bit into its soft buttery deliciousness. Everyone was safe and they even had food.
Francie shook her head at Mrs Baddeley’s sandwiches but took another spoonful of honey and stood up without help.
Sal pulled Joe aside. “Mrs Baddeley says we can still make it, if we hurry. Gallop not trot. Do you think Francie can?”
The race! It had gone completely out of his mind. Once Joe would have shouted, “Of course, let’s go!” but not now. He’d watched Francie’s unconscious face for too long.
“I don’t know,” he said. “How far is it?”
“Half an hour down to the farmhouse and then six or seven hours’ walk to town.”
“That’s a long way. But Treacle’s had a rest. Maybe he can carry Francie?”
Sal nodded. “Let’s try.” She bellowed at the others: “We’re going to New Coalhaven today. Let’s gallop!”
Joe and Beckett ran to put out the fire.
“Pee on it, boys,” Mrs Baddeley suggested over her shoulder as she and Sal helped Francie into the cart, with the honey bucket.
“Really?” Humph ran to help.
“So what happened?” Joe asked.
“We got to the barn but no Humphrey,” said Beckett.
“Mrs Badgey said did I want breakfast and I said yes please and I said you all did too so she got out her biggest frying pan. It’s humungous,” said Humph. “Then we came in her trac-sher engine. It’s strong. Stronger than two horses even!”
“Traction,” said Beckett. “Traction engine. They can do anything. Lift, tow, power a thresher or a pump. They are the future.”
The fire was out. Joe bent to pick up the basket of tools, but it fell apart.
“Just throw everything in the cart,” said Mrs Baddeley.
They dumped the tools next to Francie. She was looking pale and there were beads of sweat on her face, but she was sucking on the honey spoon and looking about her.
Beckett and Joe ran to get the rucksacks. “When did she wake?”
“Just before you got here. I found some wild honey and it woke her up.”
“Did you get stung?”
“Only once.”
“The bees must have liked you—or her. Put some honey on it. Stops it hurting so much.”
Beckett persuaded Treacle to follow the traction engine
down the hill, following Sal who was pulling the altimeter. By the time the procession reached the Baddeley farmyard, Francie looked almost like her normal self.
“It’s the honey,” said Mrs Baddeley. “Those bees know a thing or two. Smarter than a lot of folks, I reckon.”
Mrs Baddeley said to put everything in her shed while she made them more sandwiches and filled their water bottle.
“When you get to New Coalhaven, you ask directions to my sister-in-law’s house—the other Mrs Baddeley. She’ll give you a bed tonight, she has beds a-plenty. Now get on your way.”
But the donkeys had other ideas. They had their noses in the long grass and windfall apples of the orchard and refused to budge. Beckett pulled, Joe pushed, Sal shouted, Humph held apples just out of reach, Mrs Baddeley waved a stick, and Carrot dug her claws into Treacle’s head and told him off, but it made no difference. Those donkeys weren’t going anywhere.
Francie danced through the trees to show that she was strong enough to go on foot.
“Let’s risk it,” said Sal.
It felt strange having no donkeys with them as they walked down the lane on the grass strip between two dry wheel ruts. Sal pulled the altimeter. It clicked round steadily, but the worry lines made deep creases in her forehead.
Humphrey told Joe the story of how he’d escaped from the Cowboy. “Francie sent me pictures, to show me. At least, maybe she did. Or maybe I just thought. But I took this really sharp knife and I cut the rope on my legs and I didn’t even hurt myself! And I did the best-ever somersault!”
“You are a champion, Humphrey Santander. And everything is all right now, and we’re nearly there.”
Joe took one of his hands and Francie the other and they swung along together.
“And Ma might be waiting for us,” said Sal.
“Prob’ly she’ll be there,” said Humph.
“Almost certainly,” said Sal.
The road ran between fields and woods, and then between black hills with nothing growing on them.
“Mine spoil,” said Beckett.
The Mapmakers' Race Page 15
