Devil's Rock

by Chris Speyer

‘It’s just like my dream!’ he whispered to Craig.

  ‘I’m sorry, Isaac, I didn’t catch that,’ said Mrs Palmer.

  A titter rippled through the room, but Zaki, unused to being called by his full name, stared into space, or rather, into the image of the watery chase that continued to be played out before his mind’s eye.

  ‘Hello! Isaac – are you with us?’ called Mrs Palmer.

  Zaki, becoming aware that the teacher was talking to someone, looked around to see who it was, only to find all eyes were on him.

  ‘Miss?’ said Zaki.

  The class held its breath.

  Mrs Palmer allowed the silence to linger. At last she said, ‘Oh, are you back with us, Isaac?’

  This time uproarious mirth was accompanied by stamping feet and calls of ‘Hello, Isaac!’ ‘Are you with us, Isaac?’

  When the racket had died down, Mrs Palmer said, ‘Now Isaac, perhaps you could tell us what so fascinated you.’

  ‘It’s just that I had a dream,’ said Zaki, ‘like this story. About being chased and turning into different things.’

  ‘Share it with us, Isaac. Share it with us,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Since your dream is obviously more interesting than anything that I have got to tell you, come up in front of the class and tell us all about it.’

  ‘It was just a dream,’ said Zaki.

  But Mrs Palmer was not to be put off and Zaki found himself, once again, the sacrificial victim before thirty-two hungry pairs of eyes.

  ‘So?’ prompted Mrs Palmer. ‘How did this dream go?’

  ‘Well, miss . . .’

  ‘Don’t just tell me. Tell the whole class.’

  Many of the faces in the classroom were faces he knew from primary school, others were new to him, but all stared at him eagerly, just waiting, he thought, for him to make a fool of himself.

  ‘It didn’t start like your story,’ he said. ‘It started with an eye that got bigger and bigger until I fell through it. Then I was underwater and I was a fish being chased by an otter.’

  There were a few snickers from the back of the class. Like a tightrope walker who has stepped on to the wire, Zaki knew he had to keep going or fall.

  ‘I swam as fast as I could towards the surface to get away, and then I went right through the surface of the water into the air and suddenly I wasn’t a fish any more, I was a bird!’

  Zaki saw looks being exchanged, but he could feel the same excitement building inside that he felt in the dream – the wonder of being a bird, the soaring exhilaration of flight.

  ‘It’s fantastic being a bird! The wind carries you like you’re riding a wave and there’s nothing underneath you, just air, but you don’t fall because you’ve got wings and your wings are lifting you higher and higher.’

  Zaki winced as a stab of pain reminded him he couldn’t lift his left arm to demonstrate.

  ‘But then there was a hawk up above me – right in the sun – a black shape like a shadow, and I knew it was after me. I dived sideways but it dropped like – like this! – claws reaching for me. I tried to get away but . . .’

  Zaki glanced up and saw that a poster promoting healthy eating was slowly detaching itself from the back wall of the classroom. First the top left corner, then the right curled over and it began to roll downwards. A drawing pin glittered and became an eye and then the poster was gone and the air was full of beating wings and the harsh, screeching keek-keek-keek of a swooping, whirling hawk.

  Chaos followed. Children dived under tables, chairs were overturned, Mrs Palmer crouched, screaming, the book of myths and legends held over her head. Zaki and a girl he didn’t know were the only ones still standing, both staring in stunned amazement at the place on the back wall where the poster had been. With a violent lurch, Zaki’s world tipped and spun and everything leapt into sharp focus; objects flashed past at dizzying speed. Zaki was looking down on the heads of his classmates; he skimmed over tabletops, swerved to miss a wall, one moment the ceiling was rushing towards him and the next he was swooping down towards startled, upturned faces. The sickening, helter-skelter ride lasted for no more than a few seconds, then he was back in his own body and the hawk was flying straight at him. Instinctively, Zaki threw up his arm to shield his face, saw the hawk’s talons reaching out, then felt them grip his arm and the claws stab through his sweatshirt sleeve. In the sudden quiet, Zaki stood, frozen; the bird perched on his upheld arm, its piercing eyes glaring into his own.

  ‘Bring it to the window.’ The girl’s voice was tense but steady.

  Zaki saw that, by climbing on a table, the girl had managed to get a window open. Slowly, he made his way across the classroom, like a figure from a medieval hunting scene, the bird of prey, proud and fierce, gripping his outstretched arm.

  The hawk’s head swivelled to take in the girl. Zaki felt its grip tighten on his arm as its muscles bunched, ready for flight. A wing brushed his face, the harsh keek-keek-keek broke the silence and the hawk was airborne, through the window, and gone.

  The next moment Mrs Palmer’s hand was on Zaki’s shoulder. She spun him around, bending to thrust her face, contorted with anger, close to his own.

  ‘What sort of a stupid stunt was that?! Do you realise that people could have been seriously hurt? Do you? Hmm? How did you get that bird into the classroom? Did somebody help you? Somebody must have helped you. If it hadn’t been for Anusha getting the window open . . . well, I don’t know what would have happened.’ Mrs Palmer straightened and glared at the class. ‘I will find out who else was involved. Be sure of that! Now you are to sit in your places. You will not move or make a sound until I return.’ And she marched Zaki out into the corridor. As soon as they were through the door, an excited babble erupted in the room behind them.

  Mrs Palmer took a deep breath as though about to speak, thought better of it, turned and set off down the corridor. Zaki followed, feelings of anger, hurt and bewilderment chasing each other around and around inside him. When they reached the door of the head teacher’s office, Mrs Palmer commanded Zaki to ‘Wait!’, then she knocked and entered the head’s office. When she emerged she said simply, ‘We’ve sent for your father. You will stay here until he arrives,’ and returned to the classroom.

  g

  Zaki stood waiting, staring at the floor and avoiding the curious glances of teachers and children who occasionally passed by. Eventually, he heard the break bell go and the corridor filled with noise and bodies, but Zaki kept his eyes down.

  ‘I know what happened.’ She stood close to him as the pushing, chattering crowd heaved around them. ‘I saw it. It was the poster. I don’t know how you did it but you changed the poster into the eagle, or whatever that bird was.’

  Zaki looked up. He and the girl were almost exactly the same height. Her eyes were so dark that it was difficult to see the difference between the black of the pupils and the brown of the irises. Her dark eyes seemed to intensify the seriousness of her expression. What had Mrs Palmer called her?

  ‘How did you do it? Was it real?’

  Zaki knew he should say something but when he thought about the moment that the hawk appeared all became confused.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I don’t know how it happens. Things just keep appearing. Look, I don’t think you should be talking to me. You’ll get into trouble.’ But he didn’t want her to go away. It was a relief to be talking to someone; someone else who’d seen what he’d seen.

  ‘I’ll meet you after school,’ she said. ‘Do you take the bus?’

  ‘No, I walk.’

  ‘So do I. Meet you down the harbour. By the tourist information.’

  ‘Um . . . Well, they might send me home, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, but we’ve got to talk. So come to the harbour anyway.’

  She was right. ‘OK,’ he said. And felt better, much better. He wasn’t alone any more, ‘Yeah, I’ll meet you – by the tourist information.’

  ‘I know you’re called Isaac,’ she said. ‘I’m
Anusha.’

  ‘Zaki – I’m usually called Zaki.’

  ‘Fine – Zaki – Whatever. Meet you after school.’

  The crush in the corridor had subsided and Anusha joined the stragglers heading outside for break.

  A few minutes later, Craig came by, looking furtive, and wished Zaki luck. Others waved from a safe distance or pulled faces. It was clear that the story had spread like wildfire during break because the returning crowds regarded him with much more interest, but soon classes resumed and Zaki was left on his own.

  g

  Zaki’s father arrived looking hot and worried. He had obviously come straight from Number 43, as he was in his work clothes and there was brick dust in his hair. He looked questioningly at Zaki while the school secretary knocked on the head teacher’s door, but they were shown in before they had any time to say anything to each other.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Luxton,’ said the head, and then added, ‘you’d better sit as well, Zaki.’ And, to Zaki’s surprise, she smiled at him. She was a large woman, smartly dressed. Her short hair and the lines around her eyes gave her face a slightly mischievous look. She remained standing, picked a pen up off her desk and put it down again.

  ‘I must apologise for dragging you in here,’ she said to Zaki’s father, ‘but this a serious matter and, if what I am told is true, there’s the question of animal welfare.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but would you mind telling me what’s been going on?’ asked Zaki’s father.

  ‘I think the best person to tell us is Isaac,’ said the head.

  Both adults looked expectantly at Zaki. What was he supposed to say? That a poster at the back of the classroom had mysteriously turned into a hawk? That for a few seconds he’d been looking through the hawk’s eyes and seen everything from the bird’s point of view? That this wasn’t the first time; that the other day he’d seen a plastic bag turn into a seagull and, only this morning, a cat turn into a pigeon! They were hardly likely to believe that, were they?

  ‘Well, Zaki?’ said his father.

  ‘There was this bird in our classroom this morning,’ said Zaki. ‘The teacher thought I brought it in, but I didn’t.’

  ‘It wasn’t just any bird, was it, Isaac,’ said the head. ‘It was a bird of prey. Quite a rare bird and, if I’m not mistaken, a protected species. Am I right, Isaac?’

  ‘Think so, Mrs Bennett.’

  ‘You think so. And how did this bird of prey get into the classroom?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just appeared. I didn’t bring it in!’

  ‘Mrs Bennett, could you explain why my son is being accused of bringing this bird into school?’ asked Zaki’s father.

  ‘Somebody released a bird of prey in Mrs Palmer’s class this morning at precisely the time when Isaac was telling the class a story about being chased by a hawk. It seems that Isaac and one or more of his friends thought it would be a bit of a laugh.’

  ‘No!’ cried Zaki, ‘We didn’t! I didn’t! It was just there!’

  ‘OK, Zaki,’ said his father, ‘OK – let’s keep calm. If you say you didn’t bring the bird in, then I believe you. But a bird can’t just appear.’

  ‘If no one brought it in, perhaps you can tell me how it got there,’ said the head.

  ‘Couldn’t it have come in through a window?’ suggested Zaki’s father. ‘Birds sometimes do.’

  ‘The windows were closed,’ said the head. She picked up her pen, removed the cap and then clicked it back on again. She sighed, walked around her desk and sat down.

  ‘Do you have any idea how it got in?’ asked Zaki’s father.

  ‘No – I told you!’ said Zaki.

  ‘OK,’ said his father, holding up his hands in a way that indicated he considered the subject closed.

  ‘Mrs Palmer says the bird appeared to have been trained,’ persisted the head. ‘That Isaac held up his arm and the bird flew to him.’

  ‘It was going for me! I was protecting myself! Look!’ Zaki pulled up his sleeve; the claw marks were clearly visible on his forearm.

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ Zaki’s father got to his feet. ‘Are you seriously suggesting my son is some sort of expert in falconry?’

  ‘I’m merely trying to establish the truth, Mr Luxton; to hear Isaac’s side of the story.’ The head sighed again. ‘Isaac was off sick yesterday, I think? Hurt his shoulder, or something?’

  ‘He’s cracked his collarbone,’ said Zaki’s father.

  ‘Perhaps he should have the rest of today off. Let this business blow over. Is there anyone at home who could look after him? I believe his mother’s away.’

  Zaki saw his father stiffen. ‘I’m quite capable of taking care of my son, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t suggest for a moment that you are not,’ said the head, then to Zaki, ‘Well, if you or any of your friends think of anything more you want to tell me about this bird, do come and see me. You won’t get into any trouble.’ And she smiled, but all Zaki could think was, She doesn’t believe me.

  g

  On the way home in the van, his father turned to him and said, ‘First a cat turns up in the house that you have nothing to do with and now this bird. It does make me wonder.’

  He doesn’t believe me either, thought Zaki miserably. Then he remembered Anusha. There was somebody who believed him; someone who’d seen what really happened that morning, and she said she’d meet him after school. He would have to find an excuse for going out. He had to talk to her.

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  Chapter 7

  When his father steered the van into the driveway at Moor Lane, Zaki half expected the grey cat to be waiting for them outside the house, but there was no sign of it, nor did it materialise inside the house. Would it be back at the boat shed? he wondered.

  Over lunch, Zaki asked his father about progress with the renovations at Number 43, anything to keep him off the subject of the morning’s problems at school. Zaki knew his father would be keen to get back to work, so, once they had finished eating, he said, ‘I think I might take a look down the harbour. There’s an old sailing trawler tied up there and they’ll take her back down the river when the tide turns.’ His father knew he loved old boats, so this seemed perfectly plausible.

  ‘Fine, just keep out of trouble,’ said his father, ‘I’d better get back to number forty-three. They’re meant to deliver the slates for the roof this afternoon. But if you’re thinking of meeting Craig after school, don’t go playing football; remember what the doctor said.’ His father gave him a searching look.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not stupid,’ said Zaki.

  * * *

  When he reached the harbour, there was still half an hour to kill before school finished, and even if Anusha hurried, Zaki figured it would take her a further fifteen minutes to get down to the harbour. Zaki hadn’t invented the old trawler he’d told his father he was going to look at; he had noticed her tied up at the visitors’ berth when they passed on their way home from school. He thought he might as well take a look while he waited for Anusha to arrive. He wandered down to the water’s edge. ‘Vigilance’ said the gold letters on the boat’s stern. Zaki’s grandad could remember a few still fishing under sail in the 1930s and spoke with loving respect of seeing them running home, laden with fish, before a southerly gale.

  But Zaki’s mind wasn’t on boats, it was on his meeting with Anusha. What should he tell her? Should he tell her everything? Should he tell her about the cave and the skeleton? What about the girl who rescued him and the promise he made her?

  Zaki used his good arm to help clamber on to the harbour wall, swung his legs over and sat staring down into the water. His reflection bent and buckled, distorting on the rippling surface. Passing small craft sent larger waves racing to strike the harbour wall and bounce back, bringing confusion to the pattern of ripples, fragmenting his reflection, making his arms, legs, head spring away from each other and then draw back together to reunite. He watched this repeated, hypnotic disintegra
tion and reunification of his body. The sunlight on the water flashed and sparkled and an aura radiated out from his reflected head.

  Zaki looked up to rest his eyes from the dazzle of the water and saw that there was a boat making its way up the estuary under sail; another old gaff rigger, but much smaller than the sailing trawler. Was there some sort of old gaffer’s convention taking place in Kingsbridge? Her hull was painted black with a white stripe at the waterline and a snub-nosed pram dinghy with a matching black hull and white stripe trailed behind her.

  Zaki knew it took considerable skill to sail all the way to the top of the estuary, the narrow channel of deeper water winding its way down between wide mud flats, the twists and turns of the channel marked only by red and white striped poles. It was one thing to do it in a sailing dinghy with a lifting centreboard, as he and Michael had often done, quite another to attempt it in boat with a fixed keel. She looked like a Falmouth Working Boat, thought Zaki, the sort still used on the oyster beds of Carrick Roads. As the boat came around the next marker post, Zaki saw that there was only one person on deck and he was even more impressed by the skill of her skipper, who now left the boat to look after herself while checking the fenders and ropes were in place for mooring. The next turn would bring her into the cluster of moorings that lay just off the visitor’s berth and Zaki expected to hear the motor start and see her sails come down, but to his surprise she continued on under sail, weaving between the moored boats.

  This guy would even impress Michael! thought Zaki.

  Emerging from the moorings, with less than fifty metres to go, the skipper loosed the sails and now the wind no longer drove the boat along and only her momentum kept her moving forward. It was the sort of trick old-timers like Zaki’s grandad used, but this skipper looked young, a kid almost, maybe his brother’s age. And then, with a shock, Zaki realised it was a girl – the realisation was followed a split second later by near-certainty that he knew who she was. Spiky, cropped curls framed a tanned face with widely spaced eyes; a pair of eyes that had been centimetres from his own, while he clung to the boulder in Dragon Pool.