Buried Crown

by Ally Sherrick

  As the bullets struck their targets, the two enemy fighters spun out of control and hurtled towards the horizon, engines screaming, tails smoking.

  George gave a whoop and shot a fist above his head. He glanced at Adler. The Nazi’s face wore a look of cold fury. George shivered and turned his gaze back to the sky. The Spitfires were circling back in readiness for another attack. As they dipped down towards the main group of planes, the beam from a searchlight shot up and raked the air, doing its best to light their way. Two more Messerschmitts broke away from the pack. They lifted up sharply and angled round. The Spitfires gave chase, but as they did, a second pair of Messerschmitts joined the fight. Now it was four against two. Except the Spitfire pilots hadn’t realized it yet . . .

  George screamed a warning and leapt up, waving his arms wildly above his head. But even as he did it, he knew it would be no use. And now, as the newcomers bore down on them, guns blazing, it was the Spitfires who were the prey. They ducked and dived, doing their best to dodge the bullets. But the Messerschmitts had smelt blood. As they homed in for the kill, George flinched and turned away.

  Beside him, Adler gave a sharp barking laugh. ‘Fools! Did they really think they could take on the might of the German Luftwaffe single-handed and win?’

  His words were drowned out by a sudden ear-splitting crack. George’s heart lurched. He took a quick breath and flicked his eyes back at the sky, expecting to see one, if not both Spitfires, hit and spiralling out of control. What he saw instead made his eyeballs almost pop from his head.

  The cloud had reared up into a smoking black pillar. Now, as he watched open-mouthed, it lunged at the enemy fighters, spitting out forks of flame as it went. They swerved to avoid it, but whichever way they went, it was on them, blocking their escape.

  It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. George blinked and shot another look at Adler, but the Nazi’s slack jaw and wide-eyed stare told him it was.

  He looked up again. The cloud had got the enemy fighters surrounded and was coiling itself among them, forcing them into the Spitfires’ path. The two RAF pilots held their course until they were almost upon them. Then, as they opened fire, there was another mighty crack of thunder. The cloud sprang back up, lighting the sky with fresh forks of flame. One by one, the enemy fighters spun away and roared off down the river in the direction from which they had come. The rest of the Jerry planes looped round in confusion and disappeared after them, back into the night.

  ‘NEIN!’ Adler jumped up and waved his arms in the air, but it was too late: they had gone. As the Spitfires flew victory loops above their heads, he wheeled round, face white with rage. ‘Take me to the crown. Now!’

  George thrust his hands on his hips and stood his ground. ‘No! You ain’t getting it. And neither’s old Hitler either.’

  ‘In that case . . .’ Adler took a step forwards and raised the gun. As he took aim, a dark shape barrelled towards him, head down, teeth bared.

  George’s blood turned to ice. Spud! He must have broken free. ‘No, boy! Don’t!’ He jumped out in front of him, legs spread, hands raised, but Spud swerved past him and carried on. George turned and watched heart in mouth as the dog smacked into Adler, knocking the gun from his hand.

  The Nazi staggered for a moment, then righted himself and delivered a sharp kick to the side of Spud’s head. The dog gave a loud yelp, crumpled to the ground and lay still.

  George’s stomach twisted up inside him. He dashed over and flung himself down beside him. ‘Spud?’ He shook him, gently at first, then more forcefully, but the dog didn’t move. Hot tears sprang to his eyes. ‘You’ve killed him, you monster!’ He jumped to his feet, fists raised.

  Adler had picked up the gun, but now his attention shifted back up to the sky. A bolt of panic shot through George. Were they coming again? He threw back his head, following the Nazi’s gaze. But it wasn’t the planes; it was the cloud.

  It hovered above them, coiling and uncoiling like a great black snake. Adler gave a strangled cry and backed away. The cloud followed, bearing down on him. He jerked up his gun and fired, but still the cloud kept on coming. As he squeezed the trigger again, it reared up and spat out a fork of orange flame. Flinging the gun to the ground, he turned tail and ran. But the flame was quicker. Darting in front of him, it shot up, snapped open like a pair of huge, fiery jaws and struck. There was a hiss, a crackle, a single gut-wrenching scream, and then . . .

  Silence.

  George sank to the ground in a daze. He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, head spinning, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. And then he remembered . . .

  ‘Spud?’ He crawled over to where his friend lay and put an ear to his chest listening for a heartbeat, but there was nothing.

  ‘You were so brave, boy.’ Slumping down beside him, he pressed his face in the dog’s fur and wept until the tears ran dry and sleep stole in to take away the pain.

  Early morning – Monday 9 September

  George woke with a start to see the ground spinning beneath him. Someone was lifting him; swinging him through the air.

  He blinked and looked up. A man in a dark coat loomed above him, his head silhouetted against the pink-tinged sky.

  ‘Put me down!’ He tried to break free, but the man gripped him tighter.

  ‘Steady on, lad. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Who are you? Where’re you taking me?’

  ‘Just trying to make you more comfortable. Isn’t that right, son?’

  A white-faced figure appeared at the man’s right elbow. ‘Yes, Father.’

  Raymond Scroggins! George heaved a sigh. He never thought he’d be so glad to hear the sound of the other boy’s voice again. He slumped back against the rough wool of the inspector’s coat.

  ‘Here we go.’ The inspector lowered him gently to the ground in the shelter of the hut and wrapped a thick, scratchy blanket around him.

  George lifted up on his elbows, blinking against the gathering light. ‘Kitty? Where is she?’

  Inspector Scroggins squatted down beside him. ‘It’s all right. Your friend’s safe. She’s down at the police station having her ankle strapped. You can see her later.’ He turned and nodded at Scroggins. ‘Fetch him something to drink, would you, Raymond?’

  Scroggins frowned. ‘But where—’

  ‘Initiative, son. You’ve shown you’ve got some. Now don’t forget to use it.’

  Scroggins flushed. ‘Yes, Father.’ He shot George an embarrassed-looking smile and darted away up the slope.

  ‘So, George.’ The inspector leant forwards. ‘Tell me, what happened?’

  He closed his eyes, doing his best to collect his thoughts. But all he could see was a great black cloud rearing up and then plunging down on Adler’s head. He blinked and shook his head. ‘I ain’t sure I can remember. Leastways, not yet . . .’

  The inspector put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know it’s not easy, but if you could try? It would help us to clear up a few things we’re not sure about.’

  George frowned. Best keep it simple. The inspector didn’t look like the sort to believe in legends and the like. ‘There was a German spy, a man called Hans Ritter. Kitty and me came across his camp in the woods. We didn’t know he was a Jerry at first, then we saw him down on the bridge signalling to the others.’

  The inspector grunted. ‘It must have been him and his friends that put those two Home Guardsmen out of action.’

  ‘Did they . . . did they kill them?’

  ‘No. They were lucky. Just tied them up and took their guns and uniforms off them. Go on, lad. You were saying?’

  George swallowed and set off again. ‘Ritter jumped out on us and locked us up in there.’ He nodded back at the hut. ‘Then more Nazis arrived, and their leader – Adler – he said they’d put the radar out of action so our boys wouldn’t see the Jerry planes coming. Then he pulled a gun on us. I tried to stop him and—’ He shuddered. Something bad had happened after that. Someth
ing to do with Spud . . . A dull ache started up in his chest: the same ache he got when he thought about Charlie. He pulled the blanket tight about him. He didn’t want to think about it. Not yet . . .

  The inspector scowled. ‘You can rest assured that Nazi won’t be causing any more trouble; not to you or anyone.’ He nodded to where a bunch of soldiers and coppers stood huddled round a black shape on the ground.

  George’s heart jolted. He threw back the blanket and hauled himself to his feet.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’m not sure—’ The inspector made to block his way, but George was too quick for him. Sliding past him, he darted over to where the other men stood. He shouldered between them and jerked to a stop.

  It was Adler. Or what was left of him anyway. His clothes and hair were scorched, his skin black and blistered. But worst of all was the look he wore on his face – mouth gaping, eyes fixed in a terrified stare, as if the last thing he’d clapped eyes on had been the Devil himself.

  George gagged and bent double. A spurt of hot sick shot from his mouth, splatting across the shiny black boots of the policeman standing next to him.

  ‘Hey, you! What do you think you’re—’ It was the pinch-faced copper, the one who’d arrested Kitty’s granddad.

  ‘Leave him be, Constable. It was an accident. Come on, lad. This isn’t a sight for young eyes.’ Inspector Scroggins steered George back to the hut. He sat him down again and grimaced. ‘You were lucky the lightning didn’t get you too. The storm put on quite a show. It’s why we made such slow progress getting up here after you and Raymond raised the alarm.’ He flashed George an apologetic smile. ‘Still, it gave those two brave Spitfire pilots we managed to get scrambled a fighting chance. It’s thanks to you children and the pair of them the place isn’t swarming with Nazi paratroopers. It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have happened next.’

  George shivered as fresh pictures of the battle filled his head. It hadn’t been any old storm. He knew that now. But if he told the inspector what he’d seen, he’d think he was barmy. They all would. Except for Kitty . . .

  ‘George. Are you all right?’ The inspector looked at him, eyes full of concern.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘What about Ritter and the others?’

  The inspector gave a grim-faced smile. ‘They’re down at the station under lock and key, awaiting questioning. They’ll be off to a prisoner-of-war camp before you can say Winston Churchill. Which reminds me.’ He dug in the pocket of his uniform. ‘Here, I think this belongs to your friend.’

  George’s heart lifted at the sight of the star-shaped pendant glinting back at him from the inspector’s outstretched palm. He reached out and took it from him. ‘Thanks. She’ll be pleased.’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Ritter gave it to me along with some garbled tale about having disobeyed orders to do away with you both.’

  ‘He’s telling the truth. He did.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that might go in his favour when the army speaks to him.’ The inspector’s eyes clouded over. ‘Now, I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of bad news for you, lad. It’s about your dog . . .’

  The ache started up in George’s chest again. He looked away, eyes smarting. ‘Where . . . where is he?’

  ‘We put him in the hut.’

  George made to stand but his legs buckled beneath him.

  ‘Steady on, lad.’ The inspector helped him to his feet again and walked him towards the entrance. ‘I’ll come in with you if you like?’

  George shook his head. ‘No. It’s all right, thanks. I’d rather see him on my own.’ He took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

  It was dark inside. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to get used to the light.

  And then he saw him. They’d laid him out on a piece of tarpaulin against the back wall. Stumbling over, he dropped to his knees and combed his fingers through Spud’s dusty fur. A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped on to the dog’s snout, leaving a dark patch where it fell.

  A pair of footsteps sounded behind him. Scroggins knelt down alongside him, a thermos flask clutched in his hand. ‘What happened?’

  George clenched his jaw. ‘He tried to save me, but the one in charge, he—’ He broke off, shoulders heaving.

  Scroggins patted him on the back and gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘You were lucky; to have a friend like that.’ He offered him the flask, but George pushed it away.

  He stroked his hand slowly across Spud’s muzzle, then sat back and drew in a breath. ‘I’ve got to bury him.’ He wiped his face and glanced about him.

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes.’ George jumped to his feet and darted over to the pile of gardening equipment in the corner. Pulling the old wheelbarrow free, he pushed it over to where Spud lay and set it down on the ground. ‘Help me, will you?’

  Between them, they lifted up the tarpaulin and set it down inside the barrow. George tucked the corners over to hide Spud from view, then slipped back to the pile of gardening stuff and fetched the shovel.

  Scroggins frowned. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘A special place; where he’ll be safe.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Thanks. I’ve got to do this on my own.’ He slid the shovel in alongside the tarpaulin. ‘Now do me a favour. Go and keep your dad busy for a bit while I get away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I dunno. You’ve got initiative, ain’t you?’

  Scroggins flashed George a quick smile and headed back outside.

  George lifted up the handles of the barrow, wheeled it over to the door and peered out. Scroggins was busy pointing at something away down the slope, tugging at the inspector’s sleeve. He waited for them to disappear round the side of the hut, then set off up the hill in the direction of the mounds.

  When he reached the edge of the field, he paused and gazed about him. Curls of steam rose from the top of each mound. For a moment he thought it was smoke. Then, as the early morning sun warmed his back, he realized it must be the dew. Tightening his grip on the wheelbarrow, he lifted it up again and set off towards the tree.

  As he approached it, his heart fluttered. It looked different from how he remembered. Leafier. Taller too; the tips of its branches seemed almost to be touching the scattering of gold-pink clouds overhead.

  He drew round behind it, scanning the ground until he spotted the square of earth between the two tree roots Kitty had pointed out to him – the place where the crown had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years until Ritter dug it up and stole it away.

  A warm glow spread across his chest. It was a good place to bury Spud. And he’d always know where to find him too. He put the wheelbarrow down, picked up the shovel and began to dig.

  When he’d finished making the hole bigger, he set the shovel aside. Gripping the four corners of the tarpaulin, he heaved Spud out of the barrow and laid him down into it as gently as he could.

  His eyes blurred with fresh tears. Blinking them away, he bent down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. ‘Goodbye, boy. I’ll come and visit you soon, I promise.’

  He covered him with the tarpaulin and picked up the shovel again. As he dug it into the pile of soil, a sudden breeze lifted. It rustled through the tree’s branches, parting them so that a shaft of sunlight slanted into the hole. George shivered and took a step backwards.

  And then he heard it. A whimper. Coming from inside the hole.

  He frowned and shook his head. His ears were playing tricks with him. They must be.

  The whimper came again. Louder this time, and more insistent.

  Sucking in a breath, George crept back to the edge of the hole. As he peered into it, the tarpaulin twitched. A brown snout poked out from beneath it and sniffed at the air.

  Flinging down the shovel, he dropped to his knees and yanked back the cover. A pair of dazed brown eyes blinked up at him.

  ‘Spud!’ Reaching in, George lifted him out and held
him close, feeling the small thud-thud of the dog’s heart beating against his chest. He shook his head again in disbelief. How was it possible? Spud had been a goner, and now . . . He looked up, eyes sieving the shadows beneath the tree.

  A rustle of feathers made him start. The raven swooped down in front of him and landed on the pile of soil next to the hole.

  As it swivelled its head to face him, George’s skin prickled. It was carrying something shiny in its beak. Taking a deep breath, he edged closer and held out his hand.

  The bird fixed him with a bright black eye. Then, with a loud craak, it dropped the object into his outstretched palm.

  George’s throat caught as he stared down at the small circle of gold nestled against his skin. Heart racing, he held it up to the light. Two words shone back at him. Mum and Dad’s words. His and Charlie’s too.

  Together Always.

  He clutched the ring to him, eyes filling with fresh tears. He’d got Spud back, but what about Charlie? As he opened his fingers to stare at it again, a memory flickered up inside him. Something Kitty had said about ravens being messengers. Was this a message? And if it was, what did it mean? His stomach knotted. He glanced up again quickly, but the raven had gone.

  Spud nudged the back of his hand.

  George blinked. ‘You’re right, boy. Kitty will be wondering where we’ve got to.’ Giving him another hug, he slid the ring on to his right thumb. Then, grabbing the handles of the wheelbarrow, he drew in a breath and stepped out into the morning light.

  When they reached the Regenbogens’, the front door was ajar. George pushed it open and stepped inside, Spud padding close behind. As they headed along the hallway towards the stairs, voices echoed down to them. Kitty’s first and then a man’s. Her granddad. George’s heart leapt, then shrank back down. They’d not want them here now, not when the old man had only just been let go.

  ‘Come on, Spud. They’re busy.’ He made a grab for him, but the dog was quicker. He ducked, and with an excited yip, streaked off up the stairs.