‘Right-o. I’ll warn you now, though, there’s always storms over Ribblemoor, and—’
‘Can you fly, or can’t you?’
‘The Fox can fly anything,’ said Timmy. ‘All I’m saying is it won’t be easy.’
Cuthbertson turned to Mr Ian. ‘What if they postpone because of bad weather? Is that possible?’
Mr Ian snorted. ‘They won’t even check. They’ve left all the organisation to me and I’ve told them next week is clear and sunny. I’ve put them into groups – and the Sanchez boy’s one of five. When it gets stormy, I’ll get my lot back to base-camp. The Ribblestrop teams will probably lose themselves and they’ll be well away from their teachers.’
‘Hang on,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘If you take The Priory kids off, they’ll do the same – they’d be fools not to.’
‘They won’t know what I’m doing. Communication’s going to break down.’
‘When do the two schools come together?’
‘I don’t know, exactly – sometime in the evening. We’ll arrive by minibus. The Ribblestrop lot are arriving by . . . chariot. They said they’d be taking an “unorthodox route”.’
‘They are pretty unorthodox,’ said Timmy.
‘It’s this history project,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Something about “flare paths” – they’ve got it into their heads that they can follow some of the old pathways, so they want to navigate independently. I didn’t understand much of it.’
‘This is the doctor, is it? Doctor Ellie?’ asked Cuthbertson.
Mr Ian nodded.
‘Will she be with them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you spoken to her, Ian? Have you picked her brains?’
‘Not yet.’ He paused. ‘Look, Cuthbertson, she can’t stand the sight of me.’
‘Few people can, lad, but that’s not going to stop us. I want you to get on friendly terms with that woman. Set up a meeting, do you understand me? Take your lot to the crackpot museum and get her to do a lecture. Foxy, I want you out over Flashing Tor tomorrow, getting used to the wind. I want up-to-the-minute coverage by radio. Soon as they’re clear of their teachers, we do the deed.’
‘What deed?’ said Timmy Fox.
Cuthbertson stared at him.
‘I do need information,’ said Timmy. ‘The Foxter’s part of the team now – he needs to know the plan.’
The ex-policeman reached up to the side of the van and plucked some of the photographs. He set them on the table and turned them so the Fox could see faces. ‘These are our targets,’ he said. ‘That’s Anjoli, all right? Small but wiry and violent. I’ve seen him in action and he’s a menace. Miles, you know – Ian’s going to deal with him. Vijay’s another little beast, dangerous as the rest of them. Millie . . .’ His finger lingered on her nose. ‘She’s the one I’ll be looking after. We have scores to settle. You understand me?’
Timmy Fox swallowed. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I’m not fond of the little beggars, obviously, but—’
‘That’s the one we’re really after,’ cut in Cuthbertson. ‘Andreas Sanchez. That’s the one we lift, because he’s the golden ticket. Son of a Columbian and rich as Croesus. Believe me . . . if we ask a sensible price, it will be wired to us at once. He was kidnapped before and his father will be desperate. We wait for the money, then fly off into the sunset.’
The men were silent.
‘So where do I send them?’ said Mr Ian. ‘We’re meeting at Flashing Tor. Have you chosen the finishing post?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Where? I’m going to need to set the co-ordinates.’
‘I’ve chosen the perfect spot. I think the best thing is if I show it to you.’
Cuthbertson struggled into the driving seat and started the engine.
The road he took wound upwards into a range of sharp, grey peaks, and the wind got stronger. He turned right over a cattle grid and was soon lurching down an unmade road. He passed a notice saying Strictly Private, and squeezed between two enormous Stop! signs. Minutes later, the road was good again and they were rolling over a wide plain of scrubland and broken rock.
Mr Ian looked anxious. ‘Cuthbertson,’ he said, ‘this is pure wilderness. They’ll be lost for days.’
‘This is Boundary One.’
They came to a wire fence. It stretched long and high and there were rubber claws fixing high-voltage cables all along it. Keep Out! said a blood-red notice. Ministry of Defence Property. You Have Been Warned.
‘This is the way to Lightning Tor,’ whispered Mr Ian.
‘Correct.’
‘This is totally off-limits. The public can’t come here!’
‘It’s been decommissioned. Nobody knows but, as of yesterday, Lightning Tor is undefended and accessible. The army’s packed up and gone – almost. So guess who’s looking after it.’
‘Looking after it? I don’t—’
‘While the ministry boys are sorting things out. You’ve got to have some kind of presence.’
‘You,’ said Timmy Fox. ‘Stillwater Security Systems!’
‘These are my men,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Lazy and thick, every one of them. Hand-picked!’
A young guard was hauling open a gate and Cuthbertson saluted.
‘You can’t see Lightning Tor yet,’ he said. ‘It’s up in that cloud. The road’s a bit steep here, so hold tight . . .’
They drove on for another kilometre and were soon surrounded by angry shards of granite. There was no colour anywhere and the wind nagged at the vehicle, rocking it from side to side. Cuthbertson stopped.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘In a few weeks’ time, the bulldozers arrive. There’s silver deposits round here going down for miles and there’s going to be quarrying.’ He grinned. ‘We’re expecting protesters, of course. Always a few loonies trying to stop progress. So the deal is we’re going to blow up the whole site.’
‘Who?’ said Timmy Fox. ‘Who’s going to blow it up?’
‘The army’s laying the explosives. Should be ready by Friday.’
‘And you’re going to detonate . . .?’ said Mr Ian.
‘When it’s safe to do so. Yes. Do you want to see Lightning Tor?’
‘You’re going to bring the children here?’
‘Everyone wants to see Lightning Tor, don’t they? It’s a special place.’
He let in the clutch and inched the van forward again. They curled left under a black shoulder of rock and passed a series of long, low sheds. The windows were boarded up and there were padlocks on the doors. Beyond that was a radio mast, bristling with antennae. They came to another gate, wrapped in razor wire, and a squall of rain splattered over the windscreen. The road dwindled into grass and gravel and it rose up sharply towards a misty cliff. Cuthbertson shifted into first gear and rolled forward. Almost at once, they were enveloped in cloud.
‘Cuthbertson,’ cried Timmy Fox. ‘You can’t see the road!’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Let’s stop here!’
‘I’ve been here before. Stop panicking.’
The tyres were slipping now and the engine was screaming. The ex-policeman revved harder and they were suddenly rising, swaying wildly from side to side. Timmy Fox let out a groan of terror and there was another flurry of drenching rain, hammering at the roof. Then, the cloud lifted and the whole of Ribblemoor seemed to spin around them. They were halfway up a crag, clinging to bare rock, and an enormous skull and crossbones was hanging close to their bonnet.
Danger of Death! said the sign. Lightning Tor. Do Not Proceed.
‘Cuthbertson,’ said Mr Ian. ‘This is madness.’
‘Now we have to walk.’
‘You can’t expect the children to come here!’
‘Yes I can.’
‘But the fences! The gates!’
‘Everything will be unlocked. I’m organising it.’ He turned and smiled. ‘They’ll think it’s the most exciting place they’ve ever been. You know children. And we’ll be waiting for
them, Timmy, won’t we? We’ll be up there at the top, all ready for action. Now, come and see the best bit . . .’
It was hard to get the doors of the van open, for the wind seemed to be piling straight down on top of them. Cuthbertson dragged himself out and bent low. He pulled the hood of his coat up and staggered along a narrow path. Mr Ian followed him and Timmy Fox came last. Minutes later, they were forcing themselves through a narrow gulley. That’s when they saw, rising above them, the snout of the volcano. It appeared and disappeared, for the clouds were caught in a vortex around it. Overhead, giant birds were wheeling, shrieking with rage.
‘Up!’ shouted Cuthbertson.
He led the way to a set of stairs carved into the rock. A metal rail enabled them to haul themselves upwards. They came, at last, to a narrow wooden bridge.
‘My God,’ shouted Timmy. ‘This is impossible!’
They could look down, now, over the edge of the crater. The birds were everywhere and they could see where they’d come from: the crater was full of ancient, twisted trees – it was a forest, protected by walls of granite. The little bridge crossed just above the tops of foliage and ran to a central column on which sat a concrete bunker, under another enormous radio mast.
‘What’s down there?’ cried Mr Ian. He was clinging to the side of the bridge, white-faced.
Cuthbertson put his mouth to the man’s ear. ‘The centre of the earth!’ he roared. ‘Now come and meet my brother.’
‘What brother?’
Cuthbertson pointed to the top of the mast. ‘He hates those kids as much as I do. He’s in the control room, sorting out our equipment. And Timmy!’ he shouted, gripping the man’s shoulder. ‘That’s where we need the balloon. That’s our launch pad – top of the aerial!’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Meanwhile, the children were smelting.
They had been hard at work all morning, so they stank of charcoal and burnt metal. The furnaces had risen to a thousand degrees and they’d watched iron liquefy. They had guided it down earth channels into moulds; then they’d struck those moulds open so the axe-heads inside dropped hissing and glowing, like meteors. Their eyes were dreamy at the wonder of it, for this was real magic – the magic of the elements.
They showered in a nearby waterfall and lunched on nut roast – then they were ready for Captain Routon’s briefing. Everyone knew that some kind of trek was being planned, and the word ‘pioneers’ had been whispered in many corners. But the details were still secret. Today all would be revealed. They met in the roundhouse, where Doctor Ellie had pinned an enormous map.
It was surrounded by flaming torches.
‘This, my dears, is us,’ said Routon, pointing to a cross. ‘Just by the stream.’
‘Sir,’ said Miles. ‘I’m not being funny, but isn’t that chart a bit old?’
‘It’s very old. 1938.’
‘If we’re going into the wilds,’ said Millie, ‘we ought to have a modern one.’
‘I don’t know about that. Rocks and rivers don’t really change, do they? I got this from the auction house, yesterday. All kinds of things coming in at the moment – a lot of it army surplus. They’ve just closed one of those old bases.’
‘Is that where these came from?’ said Vijay. He was holding the receiver of an antique-looking field radio. In a crate nearby there were rucksacks, helmets and battery packs.
‘They were almost giving it away,’ said Routon. ‘I thought it might come in handy.’
Oli’s eyes lit up and he crept forward.
‘Look at it later,’ said Ruskin. ‘Let’s find out where we’re going.’
‘Are we going up mountains?’ said Eric. ‘Is this for the flare path project?’
‘Yes,’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘It’s a combination of survival and archeological exploration, so it’s going to test you to the limit. The mountains are actually known as tors, by the way. They’re all over the moor and our tribe would have known every inch. They’re volcanoes. Three hundred million years old.’
Captain Routon explained the proposed route in hushed silence. They would start soon, for Mr Ian was keen to get moving. They’d leave at dawn and follow what Doctor Ellie believed to be the first flare path. If they could trace it, it would lead them through farms, into the wilderness of the open moor. They would travel for a full day and meet up with the children of The Priory. That’s when the competition would start.
Doctor Ellie pinned up the team lists.
They would be in small groups, fanning out across the valley. Each team would be making for a different destination, as it was a test of orienteering. They would have maps and a compass and, when they’d reached their first stop, they’d have to solve a simple riddle. This would allow them to locate Mr Ian’s concealed boxes, in which they’d find the co-ordinates for the finishing post.
The winning team would receive the Pioneers’ Award.
The children burst into spontaneous applause and instantly set about organising kit-lists.
‘How many nights, sir?’ said Israel. ‘How long are we actually out on our own?’
‘Just two,’ said Routon. ‘I was hoping for longer, but as it’s your first outing, we’re taking it easy.’
‘So we live as the tribe did!’ said Ruskin. ‘We’ll actually be the tribe, crossing the moor!’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Doctor Ellie.
‘Where do we end up?’ said Millie. ‘We meet up at the end, right?’
‘Mr Ian’s choosing the final destination,’ said Captain Routon. ‘It’s a very closely guarded secret – not even I know where it’s going to be at the moment. But I’m sure he’ll choose somewhere interesting.’
Sanchez found Millie later that evening. She was feeding the camel and he stood watching, uncertain and nervous.
‘How are you?’ he said, awkwardly.
‘Fine.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘She’s off her mash. She knows we’re leaving.’
‘Isn’t she coming?’
‘Only two chariots, Sanchez. What’s she going to do? You’re feeling useless and rejected, aren’t you, baby?’
‘How can she know?’
‘Sixth sense, I guess. Some creatures are very sensitive.’
Sanchez looked at her and she raised her eyebrows.
‘Have I done something wrong, by the way? Are you here to lecture me about something?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, I’m going to take her down to the lake, so you can come with me if you want. Can you limp that far?’
Sanchez swallowed the insult and helped her open the paddock gate. He had learnt not to let Millie’s belligerence provoke him. They had ridden horses together through Colombian coffee plantations. They had slept in the same tent up in the snowline and watched shooting stars. He could never understand how a friendship as close as theirs slipped so easily back into confrontation.
Millie led the animal through the woods. By the time they got to the water, the sun was low and the school building was golden again. Neptune reclined, gazing up at the sky. His face was as inscrutable as ever, though Anjoli had said it was just the bug-eyed look of constipation.
‘Come on, then,’ said Millie, as the camel lapped. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
Sanchez decided to be frank. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m worried.’
‘What’s worrying you?’
‘I’m worried that we hardly ever talk now and things are happening too fast. Do you think we’re ready for the expedition?’
‘Yes. I think we’re ready for anything.’
‘What if something goes wrong? The last thing we want is for us to get lost. If we get lost, the police will get involved – they were here the other day. I heard the headmaster and he was saying they’re still going to make a prosecution – they’re just getting it ready. There’s going to be a summons and—’
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘He didn’t.’ Sanchez
looked embarrassed. ‘He was talking to Professor Worthington and I kind of . . . overheard.’
‘Spying, Sanchez. That’s bad.’
‘If they all get prosecuted, it will mean the end of the school. They could be arrested again and that means we all get split up. What would the orphans do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Things are getting dangerous.’
Millie looked at him. His eyes were full of tears.
‘What’s on your mind, Sanchez? What are you thinking?’
‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about the future. I think there are . . . omens. And I’m frightened.’
‘Omens?’
‘Yes.’
Millie smiled. ‘It’s usually the other way round, isn’t? I’m usually the one warning you.’
‘Have you spoken to Tomaz?’
‘Yes,’ said Millie. ‘Have you? He thinks you’ve been avoiding him.’
Sanchez blushed. ‘I have been – I admit it. But I spoke to him this morning.’
‘Have you spoken to Miles? Sanjay? Asilah?’
‘Yes, I’ve spoken to them all. But . . . you’re going to think this is silly. I thought I was the only one. That’s why I said nothing.’
‘The only one?’
‘Getting visits. Hearing things.’
Millie was silent for a moment. Then she spoke, firmly. ‘Maybe you sleep deeper than most people, Sanchez. But everyone sees them – just in the corner of their eye . . . they’re just shapes at the moment. Tomaz lived with a ghost, don’t forget. He’s sensitive that way and he says they’re all around the tree houses – he’s been saying it from the start. Miles is sure as well. They hear stuff and they get given stuff. And I believe them.’
‘I was woken up last night. I received a gift.’
‘Are you talking about feathers?’
‘No. I know people keep finding feathers, but I was thinking so what? There are birds in the trees. There’s nothing special about feathers. What I found was . . . can I show it to you?’
He slipped his hand into his pocket.
‘I was given it last night. By a child.’
Sanchez opened his hand and revealed a flat stone. It was a cream colour and had been chipped sharp around the edges. There was a web of strange, rusty orange over the surface, fine as thread. Millie took it and stared. She saw that along one side there was a ridge, like the backbone of some creature. From the backbone, on either side, little ribs formed the pattern of a feather, or a fish.
Ribblestrop Forever! Page 17
