Barkbelly

by Cat Weatherill

  He walked up the path and stood on the step. Raised his hand. Paused with it in midair. Took a deep breath. Knocked.

  Muffled voices. Footsteps. A creak of the door. A face: well loved, long remembered.

  “Oh!” said Gable. His hand flew to his mouth. His eyes welled with tears. “Oh, my boy!” And he pulled Barkbelly to him and held him as if he would never, ever let him go.

  “Who is it?” said Pumpkin. “You're letting in the—oh! Oh, my!” And now there were three of them hugging and holding and laughing and crying. “Come in,” she said. “Come in. Sit yourself down. Oh! How I've missed you!”

  Barkbelly sat in his old chair by the fire and looked from one to the other. Suddenly he wished he were twice the size so that he could contain all the love he was feeling.

  “How have you been, son?” said Gable, drawing his own chair close. “Where did you go?”

  “It's a long story.”

  “And I have waited long to hear it.”

  “Well, it began in the playground—”

  “Who's that?” cried Pumpkin. “Knocking at the door, just when we don't want visitors.” She kissed Barkbelly on the forehead. “I'll get rid of them. Don't you say another word till I'm back!”

  The knocking was heavier now. Insistent.

  “I'm coming!” said Pumpkin, fumbling with the door handle. “Oh!”

  The man's bulky frame filled the doorway. His voice filled the kitchen.

  “I've come for your boy.”

  Farmer Gubbin came into the kitchen. The Gantrys protested and pleaded, but it was no use. Barkbelly was taken outside, put into a cart and driven to a barn on the far side of the village. Farmer Gubbin opened a heavy door and led him inside. And there, in a shaft of sunlight, stood an empty wheelcage.

  “Get in,” said Farmer Gubbin.

  Barkbelly stared at him.

  “It's for your own safety.”

  Barkbelly climbed inside. It stank of rat sweat.

  Farmer Gubbin slid a padlock through the bars, turned the key and slipped it into his pocket. “I'll be back soon.”

  Gable arrived fifteen minutes later, dangerously short of breath. He reached through the bars and held Barkbelly's hand.

  “What's going on?” said Barkbelly. “Where's Farmer Gubbin gone?”

  “I reckon he's gone to the Evanses' house. They've been praying for this day to come.”

  “How did he find me?”

  “Did you come through the village?”

  “Yes, but I was careful.”

  “Careful or not, he must have seen you.”

  Barkbelly sighed deeply. “Papa,” he said, “will they burn me?”

  Gable gripped Barkbelly's hand hard. “I won't lie to you, son. I think they will. They haven't been idle while you've been gone. They've made plans. They'll put you on trial, but, to be honest, I think they've decided already.”

  “I'm scared, Papa.”

  “I know you are, son, I know you are. And if I could take your place, I would. Believe me, I would. Your mother too.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Barkbelly.

  “What for? You've done nothing wrong. It was an accident.”

  “I'm sorry I ran away. I'm sorry for all the pain and the worry.”

  “Well, we've had plenty of that, I won't deny it. But you're our son. We love you whatever.”

  “I thought you would hate me.”

  Gable smiled. “Son, if I could give you the moon on a stick, I would.”

  Barkbelly cradled his father's hand in both his own. “This trial… who's in charge of it?”

  “Farmer Bunkum. Fancies himself as a bit of a speaker.”

  He was the one whose cider Fish Patterson had peed in.

  “When will it start?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early.” And Gable said no more, but in his heart, he knew it would all be over by sundown.

  Chapter 60

  orkmen were hammering all through the night. Barkbelly heard them and wondered why they were building a gallows when hanging wouldn't kill him. But everything became clear in the morning, when he was led from the barn to the school. They had built a platform in the playground. The jurors were up there already, sitting on hard school chairs. The villagers were there too—every single one of them, judging from the mass of bodies that packed the yard. When they saw him, their shouts rattled the windows and scared the rooks from the trees.

  Barkbelly was led onto the platform and given a seat. He looked out over a sea of faces. Young and old, friendly, frowning—every age, every emotion was there. His past stared back at him. Miss Dillwater. Dipper Dean. Moth Evans. Freckle Flannagan, blowing him a kiss. Farmer Muckledown, Pot Williamson—all the urchin lads, waving at him. Pumpkin and Gable, holding each other, pale as candles.

  “Bark! Bark!”

  Fish Patterson was bobbing up and down like a fishing float. Punching his fist in the air. Elbowing the people who dared to drag him down.

  Barkbelly beamed at him and waved back.

  “It's going to be all right!” shouted Fish. “We're with you!”

  “No, we're not!” said someone, and the fighting began.

  When Farmer Bunkum finally took the platform, he had to raise his hand for silence.

  “Pumbleditchers!” he bellowed. “You know why we are here today. We are here to see justice done.”

  The crowd cheered.

  Bunkum strutted the length of the platform. “Let me introduce the jury. Dust Gubbin, farmer. Boot Marlow, rat handler. Weasel Watkins, farm laborer. Blossom O'Leary, school- teacher. And finally, Kettle Evans, shoemaker and father of the deceased.”

  The villagers craned their necks and nudged each other.

  “Now, I'm sure I don't have to remind you—”

  “But you will anyway,” hissed a woman in front of Barkbelly.

  “—of the terrible drama that unfolded in this very yard so many months ago. An innocent young boy, Little Pan Evans, was playing with his friends when he was savagely attacked by a fellow pupil. He did nothing to provoke this attack. It was a callous and, I would say, calculated act of extreme violence. And it left that little lad dead. Dead! With the lifeblood pouring from him, ruby red, running like—”

  “Oi!” A voice in the crowd. “There's no need for that! The lad's parents are here.”

  The villagers nodded vigorously.

  Bunkum snorted and continued. “We all know who committed this foul deed. There were dozens of witnesses. The murderer was an incomer to this village. An outsider. And he has returned. He is Barkbelly.”

  Bunkum spun round dramatically and pointed a fat finger at The Accused.

  “And now I ask him: who do you think you are, coming to our village, bringing your violence and your hatred?”

  “I didn't mean to come here,” said Barkbelly. “To this day, I don't know why my egg was in Farmer Gubbin's field.”

  “But it was. And it was found by your adoptive father, Gable Gantry, was it not?”

  “Yes, it was. And I will be grateful to him till the day I die.”

  “That day might be sooner than you think.”

  Barkbelly leapt to his feet so suddenly, his chair crashed to the ground.

  “It was an accident! Little Pan Evans was my friend. I would never, ever have harmed him.”

  “But you did harm him. You killed him!”

  “Do you think I don't know that? Do you think that by running away I somehow escaped punishment? Because I didn't. It was always in my head. Tormenting me by day. Stealing into my dreams at night.”

  “But that is not justice. Not for us. Not for his parents, Kettle and Lace. They lost their son. You stole his life from him. You are a murderer and a thief, and you didn't even have the decency to admit it. You ran away.”

  “Farmer Bunkum! Farmer Bunkum!” Someone was pushing through the crowd, but Barkbelly was too desperate to notice.

  “I ran away because I was scared. I panicked. I didn't know what to do.”

&nb
sp; “You ran away because you were a coward.”

  “Farmer Bunkum! Farmer Bunkum!”

  “I came back. I want to apologize.”

  “It's too late for that. You're going to burn, boy.”

  “Farmer Bunkum! Farmer Bunkum!”

  “Oh, for pity's sake! What is it?”

  The crowd was parting. Sock Samuels was coming through.

  “Farmer Bunkum, sir! There's something you need to know!”

  Bunkum glared at him. “Can't it wait?”

  “No, sir. Please, sir—there's a massive pair of urchins digging up Little Pan Evans's grave!”

  Chapter 61

  omeone screamed. Up on the platform, Kettle Evans sprang to his feet, then grabbed the back of his chair for support.

  “They're what?” growled Bunkum. He turned to Barkbelly. “Is this your doing? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “No!” said Barkbelly. “I have no idea what's going on.”

  Bunkum was purple with rage. He pointed at someone in the crowd. “Bring me my gun! This has gone far enough. I will blast those animals off the face of this earth if it's the last thing I do!” He jumped down from the platform and stormed toward the school gates.

  “You'll have to knock me down first.”

  Pot Williamson was standing between the gates, barring the way.

  “Move it, old man,” growled Bunkum.

  The crowd gasped.

  “No. Like I said, you'll have to knock me down first.”

  “And me,” said Saddle Yates.

  “And me,” said Brick Pullman.

  “And me,” said Shoe Mercer.

  Bunkum spat. Behind him, the villagers were getting angry.

  “Shame on you,” hissed a woman by his side. “He's an old man, with more respect round here than you'll ever have.”

  Someone pushed Bunkum. There were jeers and whistles.

  “Listen!” Farmer Muckledown forced his way through the crowd. “Listen! You all know me. And I know urchins! I can tell you now—digging up graves is not natural behavior. Pot Williamson here will back me up all the way on this.”

  “Aye, I will.”

  “So what I'm saying is this. I think we should bring a halt to this here trial until we see what's happening over at Mound Meadow. Everyone who agrees, say aye.”

  “Aye!”

  “Right, let's be off. And no flamin' guns!”

  Mound Meadow lay on the outskirts of the village. It was a peaceful place, fragrant with flowers in summer, but today it was white with winter. Circling it was a low stone wall, designed to keep grazing animals out. Now it restrained the villagers, who leaned over it, and over each other, their faces flushed with curiosity.

  Farmer Muckledown, Kettle and Lace Evans, Pot Williamson and Barkbelly entered the graveyard. Farmer Muckledown noticed the gate hinges had been sheared off; the urchins had pushed hard. Kettle Evans led the way, steering them behind a clipped hedge.

  “Oh!” Lace Evans collapsed into sobs.

  Across the way, two enormous urchins were scrabbling in Pan's grave, throwing up dirt and grunting to each other.

  “Well, butter my crumpets,” said Farmer Muckledown. “If that's not Bramble and Thorn.”

  Barkbelly stared. Kettle Evans picked up a nearby spade.

  “No,” said Pot Williamson. “Don't go any closer. I know this is hard for you both, but really—I think we should watch.”

  Ten minutes snailed by. The urchins took it in turns to dig. Bramble was down in the grave when they all heard the unmistakable sound of cloth ripping.

  “No!” wailed Lace. “Not his body!”

  “Hold her!” said Pot.

  Bramble came out of the grave. Her snout was red with clay. She shook herself and turned to her mate. Thorn was standing quite still, barely breathing. But then he grunted and his whole body seemed to quiver with effort. The golden spikes on the crown of his head began to shimmer and one of them rose up, like a seedling reaching for the sun. And Bramble took it between her teeth and dropped back down into the grave.

  “No,” sobbed Lace. “No. My baby.”

  “Wait,” said Pot. “Oh, my—”

  There was something coming out of the grave: a strange green mist that crept over the slumbering earth, caressing it, kissing it, waking it. And wherever it went, spring followed. The earth was stippled with green as the shoots appeared. Snowdrops, daffodils, crowds of crocuses. From bud to bloom in the blink of an eye. And still the green mist shaped and shifted, touching a tree here, a hedge there. And now there were roses in the middle of winter, and butterflies and bees, and larks and ladybirds. The graves were freckled with flowers; the air was sweet with song.

  But not for long. The flowers were withering and dying. Petals fell sighing to the ground. The sun was smothered by cloud and the villagers felt the earth moving beneath their feet, as if something was stirring. At the graveside, Bramble and Thorn were curling into balls; the ground was heaving beneath them. Above, the sky was shredded by lightning. Hailstones hammered down, big as fists. And from out of the grave came a shape. A shadow. It leapt to the trees in a single bound, and the villagers saw it and knew it was Death.

  But their shouts and cries were torn from their tongues by a wind that whipped and ripped through the meadow, toppling the headstones, tearing the trees. And then it began to spin, gathering dust and debris into a temple of air, a roaring vortex that spiraled into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

  “Whoa!” said Barkbelly.

  “Look!” said Farmer Muckledown.

  A hand had appeared on the lip of the grave. A pale, human hand. And it was moving. The fingers were searching for a hold on the sticky earth. Then there was a second hand. A tangle of hair. A face.

  And Little Pan Evans, looking as beautiful as the day he was born, climbed out of the grave. He took a few stumbling steps, then stopped and looked around. He was as slender as a dandelion seed—so light, he would blow away on the wind of a word. But his eyes, lost in lavender haloes, were bright and searching.

  He turned to the urchins and smiled. Then he leaned down and took Bramble's furry face into his hands. He kissed her gently on the nose. Then he turned to Thorn and kissed him. The urchins grunted and nodded at him. Then they looked at each other and ran for the gates.

  “Let them go!” shouted Farmer Muckledown, still fearing an attack from the villagers. “Let them go!”

  And the urchins brushed through the gates and ran off into the woods beyond.

  Pot caught Farmer Muckledown by the elbow. “Those two are your best bet for next year's Urchin Cup,” he said. “Do you want me to send the lads after them?”

  “No,” said Farmer Muckledown. “Let them go. I reckon they've earned their freedom. Though why they did that for Little Pan Evans, I have no idea.”

  “They didn't do it for Pan,” said Barkbelly. “They did it for me.”

  Farmer Muckledown frowned. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes,” said Barkbelly. “But not now.”

  Over by the grave, Little Pan Evans was still wavering. Slowly his head turned and he saw the watchers.

  “Mama,” he whispered. “Papa.”

  Lace pulled herself free from her husband's arms and started to run. Over the path, over the graves, over to her lost son. When she reached him, she fell to her knees and gathered him to her. “My baby,” she said. “Oh, my beautiful baby boy.”

  And Barkbelly, watching the reunion, felt a sob rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it refused to go. He was finally seeing his dream come true, only it was happening to someone else.

  Chapter 62

  arkbelly and Fish Patterson sat on the playground wall and watched the celebrations. The village green was covered with tables that sagged under the weight of party food. Fairy lanterns twinkled in the trees. The village band was playing a reel. Couples were storming up and down, their boots bouncing to the rhythm of the dance. Welcome-home cards
were pinned to every tree and post.

  After Little Pan Evans had returned from the dead, the villagers had been more willing to listen to Barkbelly. It was the Evans family that forgave him first. They said they had always worried about Pan playing with bigger boys. An accident had been bound to happen one day.

  It was Miss Dillwater who suggested the double homecoming party. “Both boys should be welcomed back into the community,” she said. The villagers had seized upon the idea with gusto, and if Pumpkin and Gable thought they were hypocrites, they didn't say so. Pumpkin had contributed generously to the feast and Gable had spent the afternoon setting out tables. But neither of them would be drawn into conversation.

  Whoosh! A rocket shot high into the air above the boys' heads and exploded, showering them in stars. Fish turned to his friend and punched him on the arm.

  “It's good to have you home, buddy,” he said.

  “It's good to be home,” said Barkbelly. “At least, it is now.”

  “It's a bit rich, isn't it, all this happy homecoming stuff? Half the village would have burned you on a bonfire and thought nothing of it. But look at them now. Slapping you on the back and saying they missed you.”

  Barkbelly shrugged. “It's how people are.”

  “Flamin' heck! How can you be so reasonable? They drove you away.”

  “You were the one that told me to run.” Barkbelly's eyes twinkled.

  “I was scared,” said Fish. “I panicked. I was wrong.”

  “No, you were right. You knew what they'd be like. You knew they wouldn't understand.”

  “Simpletons.”

  Barkbelly smiled at his friend's indignation. “I'm back now. That's all that matters. And you know, there's a part of me that's glad it happened. Fish, you wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen and done. And some of the people I met along the way—they were brilliant. Course, there were bad times too. Times I thought I couldn't go on. But I did. I'm proud of that, you know.”

  Fish pulled a sausage roll out of his pocket. “Little Pan Evans showed me his bruise. He's got a puncture wound right in the middle of his chest. It must have really hurt.”