by Chris Speyer
‘Why do you ask?
‘I just thought, since smugglers used the river, you know – there might be one.’
‘There was somethin’.’ Grandad took a pencil from his shirt pocket and stirred his tea thoughtfully. He took another sip from his mug. ‘Did you sugar this?’
Zaki nodded.
‘Could’ve been sweeter.’
‘About the Orme,’ Zaki prompted.
‘There was a lot of smugglin’ went on . . .’
‘And?’
‘Excise turned a blind eye to most of it. I’m talkin’ maybe a hundred and fifty, two hundred year ago. Course it still goes on today.’
‘And the cave?’
‘I’m comin’ to that. Would you like a biscuit?’
‘Thanks.’
Grandad fetched the biscuits, blew the dust off the packet and offered them to Zaki, who took two.
‘There was a man named Maunder, so the story goes – time of my great-great-grandfather. This Maunder wasn’t from round this way, but ’e was the ringleader. Led the others on, so to speak, from smugglin’ to wreckin’. There was always wrecks on this coast, plenty of ’em. Did you ever consider why they called that great stone off the Orme Devil’s Rock? Some say it’s because in a certain light you can see the devil’s face in it. But I never seen a face. More likely it’s on account of the number of souls it’s taken to hell. It’s an easy thing, if you’re runnin’ from a storm on a black night, to mistake one harbour entrance for another and plenty of skippers mistook the Devil for the Mew Stone and turned into the Orme thinkin’ they was off the mouth of the Yealm, especially when some fiend lit a beacon to mislead ’em.
‘What came ashore from a wreck was considered property of they that found it. They was meant to pay duty on salvage but nobody took too much notice of that, it was the landowners, not excise, caused the problems for the wreckers. The landowners laid claim to anything that washed up on their foreshore and the land around the Orme was owned, at that time, by a family called Stapleton, and Robert Stapleton took exception to Maunder and his gang clearin’ out the wrecks on his property.’
Grandad dipped his biscuit in his tea and Zaki stroked the cat while he waited for him to continue.
‘Grandad?’
‘Hold your horses, boy – I’m tryin’ to call to mind what happened next.’
Grandad nodded slowly as though agreeing with an invisible storyteller.
‘It seems Stapleton and Maunder fought for a bit, but then they joins forces and it’s hard to say which of ’em was more evil. Seafarers have a natural loyalty to other seafarers, but Maunder’s lot took to killin’ any poor soul, seaman or passenger, who survived a wreck and the bodies was buried in Stapleton’s fields. That’s why nobody will farm the land by the Orme. They’re afraid of turning up bodies when they’re ploughin’.’
‘What about the cave?’
‘Well, villains’ll always fall out, won’t they? And Maunder and Stapleton were no exception. They say Maunder dug a secret hidey-hole somewhere thereabouts so he’d get most of the plunder hidden before Stapleton could arrive at the wreck.’
‘Does anyone know where it is?’
‘Not as far I know. Maunder disappeared – killed by Stapleton most likely. Then Stapleton handed the rest o’ the gang over to the authorities. The men were hanged and the women an’ children were transported.
‘What happened to Stapleton?’
‘Lost the family estate gambling. Maybe he found Maunder’s hidey-hole, maybe ’e didn’t.’
‘So you never saw this cave when you were on the fishing boats?’
‘No, none of us ever saw it. Maunder and the others, they all lived a long time ago remember, and it’s probably all just an old yarn.’
‘Do you think it’s just a story?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no.’
‘Did you ever look for the cave?’
‘No I did not. And neither should you.’
‘Why not?’
‘What’s buried is best left buried, boy, that’s why not.’
‘But what if someone . . . Ow!’ Zaki was going to say ‘found it by mistake’, but just at that moment the cat on his lap dug her claws into his leg.
His grandfather was looking at him hard and he realised that, if he continued, the old man would guess, perhaps had already guessed, that he’d found the cave.
‘Would there be treasure, do you think?’ asked Zaki, trying to make it sound like idle curiosity.
‘Shouldn’t think so. The cargoes those days was mostly food, wool, some wine and spirits p’rhaps – nothing of much value by today’s standards. Maunder would have sold it as quick as he could.’
Zaki was certain there was more to the story than his grandfather was telling, but he couldn’t press it any further without admitting that he’d found the cave and, in doing so, breaking his promise to the mysterious girl who’d pulled him to safety. It was a problem. Zaki decided to change the subject. He’d get his grandfather talking about the wreckers another time.
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‘Has anyone bought Queen of the Dart yet?’ The Queen of the Dart was a motor yacht that Grandad had restored and for which he was hoping to find a buyer, but no one had shown any interest. It was becoming a family joke.
‘Not yet. Why? You thinkin’ of buying her?’
‘Me?!’ exclaimed Zaki in mock horror. ‘You know I only like boats with sails.’
‘Sensible lad. Wish I’d never taken that boat on. Looks like I’m stuck with her.’
Grandad eased himself out of his chair and took the mugs to rinse in the paint-spattered sink.
‘Well, best be getting on. Can’t spend the whole afternoon chatting. You goin’ to be any use to me with that shoulder?’
‘What do you need to do?’
‘I was hopin’ to get some planks on the bottom of that rowing boat.’
Zaki spent the rest of the afternoon helping his grandfather as best he could. They said little to each other, concentrating on what needed to be done, but Grandad would pause occasionally to straighten his back and praise the virtues of wooden craft. ‘Did you know the Vikings built their longboats this way?’ he asked when the first plank was in place, and then, half an hour later, ‘Light and strong, light and strong, that’s the advantage of a boat like this.’
Watching the easy skill with which the old man handled the tools and materials, Zaki wondered how long it took to learn to be a boatbuilder. Could he join his grandad when he was old enough to leave school and one day take over the boat shed? After all, he shared his grandad’s name, Isaac Luxton, even if everyone did call him Zaki. Maybe one day he would be Isaac Luxton, boatbuilder.
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At a quarter to six, Grandad downed tools, hung up his apron and shut the back door of the shed. Jenna recognised the signs and went to stand, wagging her tail, by the front door. When the door was opened, the cat made a dash past the dog and seemed to disappear.
‘Is your dad picking you up, or am I expected to drive you home?’ asked Grandad.
‘You know Dad.’
‘In yer get.’
Zaki let Jenna into the back of the car before getting in the front.
‘If you put the radio on, we might catch the shipping forecast,’ said Grandad as he started the motor. The forecast with its litany of place names – Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight – seemed to Zaki to belong to Grandad in the same way as the smell of wood and varnish, and, as Zaki watched him steer the old Volvo through the twisting lanes above Batson Creek, he could imagine him at the wheel of a trawler battling its way through a force 8 gale in sea areas Fastnet, Shannon or Rockall.
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Grandad pulled up in front of the house in Moor Lane.
‘I’ll not stop, the ol’ dog’ll be wantin’ her dinner.’
‘Thanks for the lift, Grandad.’
‘Watch that arm, boy.’
As the car pulled away, Zaki was astonished to see the grey c
at waiting by the gate. She must have sneaked into the car, thought Zaki. How else could she have got here?
The cat followed him into the house, and immediately made herself at home in the kitchen.
‘Where’d that cat come from?’ asked Michael, who was spreading a thick layer of peanut butter on to a piece of toast.
‘Grandad’s.’
‘Grandad doesn’t have a cat.’
‘You asked me where it came from, not whose it was.’
‘All right, smart arse, whose is it?’
‘I don’t know, do I.’
‘Well, I don’t know what Dad’s going to say.’
‘Isn’t he home yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m starving.’
‘Make yourself some toast, that’s what I’m doing.’
‘But I’ve got a bad arm.’
‘Aw, diddums! All right – have this piece. I suppose I can make myself another!’
‘Thanks, Michael. You’re a pal.’
‘Yeah, aren’t I.’
Zaki waited to see if Michael would say anything about the first day of school but, having made another piece of toast, Michael headed upstairs. His bedroom door slammed and soon Zaki heard him playing his guitar. He had begun mixing bass runs in with the strummed rhythms and, although he would never say it to his brother, Zaki had to admit Michael’s playing was sounding surprisingly good.
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Chapter 6
The grass, long and wet, clung to his ankles. He wanted to leave, to run, but the grass was holding him back. He shouldn’t be in this field. This was the field where they buried the bodies. The ground heaved by his feet. A hand reached up to grasp his leg.
Zaki woke, his heart pounding, but as the dream image faded he became aware of two eyes that glowed in the soft morning light filtering through the window curtains. The cat was sitting on the table beside his bed, looking down at him, her pupils large and dark.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Zaki.
The cat tucked her forepaws under her chest, closed her eyes and seemed to doze, sphinx-like, inscrutable, as though, now Zaki was awake, she no longer needed to be on watch.
The relief of waking and finding the horror that had gone before was just a bad dream was quickly followed by the stomach-clenching realisation that today was his first day at a new school, THE BIG SCHOOL. Of course, he comforted himself, Michael would be there – Michael knew his way around; Michael would show him what to do – it wasn’t like it was the complete unknown. And friends from his primary school were going up with him – yeah, Craig would be there – but he still wished he could crawl back under the sheets, put today off, claim his arm hurt too much. Yeah, and he’d gone and missed the first day when everyone found out where their classrooms were. Was he meant to take PE kit? No, he couldn’t do PE ’cause of his arm. His primary school had been small and friendly; he’d been one of the big kids. Now he’d be one of the smallest. If his mum had been here, she would have phoned up and found out what the timetable was. Why was his dad so useless at that sort of thing!? Didn’t he understand anything?
People would want to know about his arm, of course – how it happened. If only he could tell the real story! The cave, the skeleton, almost getting drowned – and the girl. He had to tell somebody, there had to be someone he could talk to about it. A thing like that can’t just happen and then you never talk to anyone about it – it would drive you crazy. It was driving him crazy.
He put on the blue school sweatshirt and black trousers that Michael had grown out of – at least they didn’t look new. Getting his left arm through the sleeve was a painful business, but the fact that the sweatshirt was a little too big for him made it easier. As he dressed, he thought about the story Grandad had told him. So there was a smugglers’ cave. It must have been the one he found, but that didn’t explain the skeleton. And what about the girl? Why didn’t she want him to tell? He was still puzzling over it all as he went downstairs.
‘What’s that cat doing here?’ asked his father, as Zaki entered the kitchen.
Zaki looked round to see that the cat was sitting, nonchalantly, at the foot of the stairs.
‘It was at the boat shed.’
‘That wasn’t the question, Zaki. I asked what it’s doing here.’
‘I don’t know. It just is.’
‘It just is! Zaki, why did you bring it home?’
‘I didn’t. It must have followed me.’
‘Grandad drove you. How could it have followed you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it got in the car.’
‘How could it have got in the car without you knowing? Zaki, you can’t go bringing stray animals into the house. It probably has fleas. I suppose it’s been in your room all night. Did you let it sleep on the bed?’
‘No! And I didn’t bring it in! It just came in! Ask Michael!’
‘Well, it’s not staying in the house while you’re at school, and after school it’s going back where it came from. Is that clear?’
‘Dad,’ said Zaki, ‘it’s nothing to do with me – honestly! Grandad’s been feeding it.’
‘That doesn’t give you an excuse to bring it home.’
‘I told you. I didn’t. It just . . .’
‘Eat your breakfast. You don’t want to be late for your first day at your new school.’ And his father went upstairs to tell Michael not to spend the whole morning under the shower.
* * *
As Zaki and Michael left the house – Michael, breakfast toast in hand – the cat shot past them. Zaki watched it run across the small front lawn and saw that as it ran it seemed to tumble, becoming a grey spinning blur in the centre of which something glittered. The glitter became an eye, a small, bright, round eye that blinked. Zaki stopped and stared. The grey blur around the eye twisted and shrank as though drawn inwards by the eye, coalescing quickly into a new form, a bird, a grey pigeon, that flew up to perch on the telegraph wire.
‘Come on, Zaki!’ shouted Michael. ‘We’ll be late. What are you gawping at?’
‘I have to find the cat,’ Zaki said, dropping his bag and running to the spot where the cat had seemed to have disappeared.
‘Leave it, Zaki. It’ll be all right.’
‘No, something strange happened.’ Zaki stood on the spot where the cat had last been, looking all around. The pigeon regarded him from the overhead wire.
‘Something strange is always happening to you, Zaki. If you’re going to mess about, I’m going without you.’
Reluctantly, Zaki followed his brother.
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Although it was only a short walk from Moor Lane to school, by the time they got there the playground was ominously empty and silent. They were late and classes had already started, so there was no chance for Zaki to find anyone he knew to ask where he was meant to be. Michael said it was Zaki’s fault anyway – that they would have been on time if he hadn’t made all that fuss about the cat.
‘Nobody ever showed me around when I started school,’ said Michael. ‘I had to find everything out for myself, so why can’t you?’
Left on his own, Zaki had to suffer the humiliation of being shown to his classroom by the school secretary, and thirty-two faces turning as one when she ushered him through the classroom door. On seeing him, almost every face lit up with the delighted fascination of a cannibal witnessing a human sacrifice, and there was obvious disappointment when the teacher, whom he later discovered to be called Mrs Palmer, failed to do anything more to embarrass him but merely waited for him to find a vacant seat before continuing the lesson. Zaki saw that there was a seat by Craig. Perhaps his friend, who was now indicating the vacancy with little nods of his head, had saved it for him.
There were whispers of ‘Hey, Zaki, what you been doing?’ and ‘What happened to your arm?’ as he made his way between the tables, but Zaki, conscious of the teacher’s eyes on his back, thought it best not to respond. Once in his seat, he searched the whiteboard for clues to the subject
of the lesson. ‘Myth in Ancient Societies – Ceridwen and Taliesin,’ he read and felt very little the wiser.
Mrs Palmer resumed where she had left off. ‘Ceridwen was a witch,’ she said, tapping with a finger on the whiteboard, ‘who had a son called Morfran. Morfran was ugly and stupid, so the witch decided to make him wise by brewing up a great spell in her cauldron of wisdom. The cauldron had to be stirred for a year and a day and that job she gave to a boy called Gwion. On the last day of the spell, three drops splashed from the cauldron on to Gwion’s finger.’ Mrs Palmer paused and looked around the class. ‘What would you instinctively do if three burning hot drops had fallen on your finger?’
‘What’s she talking about?’ Zaki whispered to Craig.
‘It’s some old story from Wales,’ Craig whispered back.
‘It’s Craig, isn’t it,’ said Mrs Palmer with exaggerated sweetness. ‘Perhaps you would like to answer my question?’ But Craig was showing Zaki where to find the chapter on myths in the textbook.
‘Craig!’ their neighbour hissed. ‘She’s talking to you!’
Craig’s head jerked up but Zaki kept his eyes down, hoping not to be drawn into whatever was about to take place.
‘Sorry, miss. What was the question?’ asked Craig, turning a deep shade of pink.
A great hoot of laughter burst from the class. This was only the second day of term and the air in the classroom was still full of the wild disorder of six teacherless weeks of running free.
‘Clearly, Craig has more important things to think about, so I will tell you what Gwion did,’ continued Mrs Palmer. ‘He put his scalded finger in his mouth and so received all the wisdom that was intended for the witch’s son. Of course Ceridwen was furious that Gwion got the wisdom that was intended for her son, so she began to chase him, but Gwion dived into a river and used his new knowledge to change himself into a fish. The witch changed herself into an otter and pursued him . . .’
The image of the frantically swimming fish with the sleek otter after it – the otter’s needle-sharp teeth centimetres from the fish’s tail – sprang into Zaki’s head.
