Nathan slept, and while he slept, he dreamed. The visions fragmented, drifting, and flashing from one thing to another. The dreams were vivid, in realistic colour, and the sound was loud. He felt as though he was watching a film. In fact, he felt as though he was inside the film himself.
The first picture showed William Octobr standing over his furnace in Bandy Alley, back in medieval London. Busy, and content, the man was working cheerfully until he was interrupted. In a blaze of fire much greater than his own furnace, his shop suddenly exploded. William was thrown back, and the flames overtook him. Fire began to crackle and the wooden beams burned and fell.
But at that moment, Brewster Hazlett appeared, bending over him. He was cackling as usual, saying, “Well, old grandpappy Octobr, November, December, you’ll not be seeing January.”
The elderly man tried to wedge himself up. “You Hazletts are a vile breed. Leave me to die.”
“Not over yet,” Brewster sang, kicking up and down as if he was Irish dancing. “Tis the boy you have met. Don’t like him, I bet. All ready and set. Far diddle – go get.”
“Fool,” yelled William. “Either save me or leave me to die alone.”
“Itsy bitsy Nat the Bumble Bee Head,” Brewster sang, “wants to steal your royal bed. “
A terrible scream from William marked the moment when the flames swept over his face, scarring him and sending him blind. “Help,” he screamed.
“I’ll help you, if you help me, old man.” And Brewster could be seen setting down a pretend body in the flames as he lifted William up on a sudden gale of whistling wind, and disappeared with him.
And the dream changed, then changed again. After some time, Nathan woke with a shiver. But now he knew exactly what had happened and how he had been tricked and trapped. It had all been, as usual, the Hazletts. He even felt sorry for old man Octobr, but he also felt he could never truly forgive him.
The dream had shown him everything and now he understood exactly what he had to do next.
That was when he got up, held the Knife of Clarr high so that the light from the blade showed him space and light, and began to run again. Now he knew he was on his way to the caves of Clarr, but as long as he could arrive there before anyone else, he also knew how to climb the tower and use the mosaic puzzle to take him to the veil. And then, of course, he could get back to England.
There was another day or more, for Clarr was many miles from Peganda, but gradually the tunnel opened out into a wide walkway which wound and spread until it was a maze of passages and dark caves. There was the trickle of underground water, unseen but flowing beneath the rocks where he walked, and in places, Nathan could feel a cold draught which meant there was some tiny escape up, up into the open air.
But he was no longer in the dark because the knife shone bright silver, and he was not lost, the knife showed him the way.
He no longer heard voices, sinister laughter, or noises of animals, so he believed himself to be alone and safe for the moment. But he could not be sure he would arrive first at the Tower. Anyone else could have got there before him, particularly if they had taken the sky train, galloped by llama, or especially if they had used magic. Hurrying, but without exhausting himself in case he needed his strength once he arrived, Nathan followed the bright silver path that the knife showed him.
He was looking down to make sure he did not fall into any sudden caves, streams or cracks in the rock, when the thing came out of the deep shadows above. Nathan felt the movement behind him, and the brush of something cold on his back. He whirled around and stumbled away in shock.
Long thin fingers had appeared from the shadows way above, and they were walking towards and around him, each fingertip like a footstep. The nails were filthy with clotted dirt and they smelled of dung. Four fingers, each longer than his whole body, each pale grey with huge bony knuckles, and each walking together on the tips of their nails. Nathan gasped, turning to run. But there was nowhere to run, and the knife had lost its light.
Twisting and turning, desperate to find the way out, Nathan was then horrified to see another hand run from the tunnel behind him. Four more fingers with their nails cracked and dirty, but moving fast. The fingers rushed towards him and each knuckle, as it bent to run, creaked and whistled like the wind. And also like the wind, it came blowing into Nathan’s face. The fingers wrapped around his eyes and he felt the freezing ice-flesh against his ears.
Nathan turned around and around, desperate and panicking, trying to get away from these foul things. But the one on his face hung on, its filthy fingertips feeling around him and even poking into one eye.
He howled, pushing it away, but now the first hand approached again, faster this time, and began to climb up his leg, still walking on its four fingertips. Hearing whispers now in the terrifying hush, Nathan fell to his knees, grabbing at each clawing finger.
“What is it, this wormy thing?” whispered something from above.
“Has it got a mouth? asked another. “Can we crawl down its throat and see what it has in its stomach? It might have nice food tucked in there. Better than we find here.”
“Then we should eat it,” answered the first voice.
With rising anger, Nathan realised he could protect himself with his knife if he could just stop being frozen with fear and disgust. So grabbing his knife tighter, he stabbed at all the fingers, a little wildly at first, but then more carefully, one by one. He saw spurts of something pale, and thought it must be blood. A few times he nearly stabbed himself for the fingers were climbing all over him, but with one frantic swipe, one of the fingers was cut in half and the thing roared like a wave crashing against a wall in a storm, and the eight long thin knuckled monsters tumbled away, first in a tangled heap on the ground, and then, picking themselves up, scurried into the dark tunnel and could no longer been seen or heard.
With a massive sigh of relief, Nathan flopped down, breathing deeply. He was still panting some moments later, but he forced himself up, and even though his legs were shaking, he walked on the way he had originally been going.
Then, quite suddenly after many hours, he came to what he had been hoping to see. The great waterfall that he had been shown in his dream, tumbling in cascading brilliance from the top of one wall, hurtling into a dark lake at his feet. This was the beginning of the underground River of Murtle. So Nathan skirted the edge of the small black lake, staring into the water but seeing nothing. It seemed strange to him that the waterfall fell in such silvery brilliance and yet settled in black water. But with the light of the knife, he did not lose his footing in the slippery sloping banks, where he knew from his dream that he would have drowned without hope of salvation for the lake was thick with weed and hungry swimming crabs that would eat whatever they could.
For a moment, catching his breath again and trying not to remember the creeping fingers, he watched the things in the water. The crabs were tiny but seemed vicious, for they latched onto the larger creatures, biting and nipping. Some fish were beautiful with pale silvery pink scales and big nervous eyes, but others were more like eels with snake-like bodies and wide mouths shining with long sharp teeth. One eel suddenly looked up at him and began to swim to the surface so Nathan quickly moved away.
Instead Nathan reached the falls, and clambered up the stone steps which led behind the water and up into another passage. There he could sit and stare out through the thundering cascade, watching the cavern beyond. There was a fine mist where he sat, and although the falls did not touch him, he was soon quite wet from the mist and spray, so he stood and followed the way the knife and dream showed him.
The steps were both steep and slippery, but slowly Nathan climbed up, occasionally reaching places where one step was deep enough for him to sit and rest and get his breath back. Long before he reached the top, he felt as though he had been climbing forever. “Even though I’m supposed to be the Lord of Clarr, I shall never,” he said to himself, “come to the Caves of Clarr again.”
As i
f to prove the danger, as he was resting he looked down and saw tiny insects scuttling in the gaps between the stones of each step. They buzzed and spat, jumping on each other as if all they wanted to do was fight. One leaped all the way up to Nathan’s nose and bit him, hanging on until he pulled it off. He rubbed the tip of his nose. It was very sore and he wondered if the horrid thing had wanted to crawl inside.
Quickly getting up, he concentrated on climbing the steps, even though they felt as if they were going on forever. When he reached the top step, he felt like cheering. Instead he stood, leaning back against the wall, before carefully pushing open the door that stood there. The sudden burst of light almost blinded him, and he fell back a step and waited until his eyes adjusted. After some days in constant pitch blackness, the blazing light seemed unnatural. The light from the knife had always been gentle, cool and silvery.
Nathan walked forwards into the daylight. He knew this was early November, and although the Lashtang climate was sunny and rarely freezing, even in winter, he was now in the mountains and that would be far colder. So when a bitter wind blew straight in his face, Nathan was not surprised. However, it was the first touch of snow on the mountainside that really made him shiver. He was wearing rags designed to make him look like an orphaned beggar in the city, so they were not warm enough for the cliff sides in winter, but he was at least thankful that he wore big boots and had not gone barefoot like Alfie and John.
It was not long before the knife showed him the way into the great tower from below and Nathan scrambled into the warmer cavern where he was protected from both wind and snow. Still it was a long climb, but he was escaping for his life, so he neither complained nor rested often. Eventually with a sigh of enormous relief, he saw before him the way to the great tower door, which still lay wide open.
Knowing exactly what passage led to the veil, and home, Nathan hurried in, heading quickly forwards. And then he stopped with a yelp of surprise and disappointment.
The throne of Lashtang sat in the middle of the mosaic pattern spread across the circular floor of the tower’s grand entrance. The last time Nathan had seen it, his granny had been sitting there. This time it was Braxton, Zakmeister’s brother, who worked for the Hazletts. And beside him, bent over a little but as tall as a man, was a wolf with three heads on the end of three long necks, and each of those heads had an open mouth with rows of sharp pointed yellow teeth. And it began to growl. Three voices growled, roared and spat dribbling blood stained saliva.
Nathan couldn’t move.
“I’m delighted to meet you again, Nathan,” said Braxton. “You know me of course, but I don’t think you know my friend Tansle. She is quite an exceptional young woman, and quite unique.” He turned to the monstrous three-headed wolf, and smiled, patting its black curly shoulder. “You might as well turn back for a little while, ugly brat. Not quite dinner time yet, you know.”
And with no more than a twitch, the giant wolf blinked its huge black eyes six times, long and slow, and turned back into the little girl Nathan had seen in Peganda with William Octobr. The child, who seemed to be only about seven years old, was sweet and pretty, round-cheeked and bright eyed. Her hair was a mass of thick black silky curls, but then she opened her mouth, grumbling with a long low growl. Her throat was long and red, her tongue large and dark, and she had a wolf’s teeth, bloodstained and extremely sharp.
“Are you – William’s granddaughter?” whispered Nathan.
“No.” Braxton guffawed and gave Tansle’s shoulder another pat. “The old fool has a human granddaughter named Tansle. Some silly brat with striped hair like your own. This ugly creature is not her.” He laughed again, as though mightily amused by the prospect. “No, no. This creature has no name, so when she was discovered, and placed to watch over William Octobr and his family to ensure he behaved himself, we called her Tansle too. A charming idea. She seems happy with the name, although as yet she cannot speak. But she understands, don’t you, little brat?”
The child dutifully grinned, showing her teeth.
Nathan stepped back, watching without blinking. He watched the girl’s reactions, but could make little sense of the situation. Then he realised that she had deep scars on her arms, hands and chin. Frowning, he asked, “You’re hungry. So when did they feed you last?”
The girl looked down at her feet and shook her head. The little black curls bounced. Nathan noticed one small moist tear in both her eyes. She looked away and so did he. At the same time, he pretended to trip, and bent, one knee to the mosaic tiles. There he was able to push his fingers into his boot unseen, and touch the hidden knife of Clarr. In his mind he asked to send a request to the messenger.
“I want Hermes,” he said silently. “He must get me out of here. I have to go home. I order the Knife of Clarr to contact Hermes for me.” Immediately he felt better. Although the great three-headed beast was terrifying, whatever else the knife managed to do, or not, calling for the messenger out in the open was always answered quickly.
Hearing nothing, Braxton stood, pushing back the grand throne and marching towards Nathan. The little girl stayed where she was, unchanged. “Well, brat,” Braxton said. “It’s time for your adventure to end. The foolish tribe of ambitious Octobrs must realise their time is over. The Hazletts have been our rulers for hundreds of years. How can you expect such ancient history to come alive again after so long?”
“Because the Hazletts are cruel monsters,” said Nathan loudly. “You threatened William Octobr, so you’re as bad as all the rest. And this girl – this Tansle – she’s a beast in disguise.”
The girl turned away, hanging her head, and sniffing. Braxton smiled. “So who is cruel?” he demanded. “The Hazletts? Or you, insulting a poor child who cannot even speak for herself.?
“Not if she’s going to eat me,” retorted Nathan angrily.
“A hungry wolf needs plenty of food,” Braxton laughed. “Three-heads to feed. And she’s not eaten for three days. Starving, aren’t you, my pet?” He stroked her curly head, then suddenly demanded, “Change, and show him who you really are.”
Obediently she looked upwards and blinked, very slowly, six times. The three-headed wolf reappeared, showing its teeth and panting. Nathan watched closely, half in curiosity and half in horror. The little girl’s head changed first, her curls tightening as the neck elongated and then split, becoming three separate heads, all panting eagerly as though desperate for food. Then the body changed, and grew, swelling up to twice the size. Nathan noticed the scars along its back and flanks. He stared. “So this is what you’ve used to terrorise old man William Octobr. What have you threatened? That the wolf will eat his son and granddaughter if he doesn’t do what you demand?”
“Of course.” Braxton was laughing, with the same low menacing laugh Nathan had heard before.
He said, “Then you’re as much a monster as the Hazletts. Now I understand why you changed sides.”
Braxton laughed loudly. “Ready, Tansle? Dinner time, I think.”
The three-headed wolf was licking all its lips, its three tongues eagerly lolling out as it gazed, big eyed, at its master. Tentatively with a thump, thump, it wagged its huge tail twice, hoping that at last the time had come for food. It was ready to pounce. The six great black eyes stared longingly, like a dog begging at its master’s dinner table. Yet its thick black curly coat drooped, its ears flat, unsure.
But then, out of the great open sky through the tower doors, a blur of white feathers zoomed above them, turning and dipping. As Braxton fell back in astonishment and the wolf bent down in sudden confusion, the large flying goose swept high and then low. Having been poised for a leap, Nathan was able to swing one leg over Hermes’ back, and sat astride in seconds. Hermes turned and with a single great flap of his huge wings, disappeared through the tower doors and out again into the great sky over the mountains, and was gone.
The air shivered as if the freezing mountain chill had been as surprised as Braxton. It was almost night and the
first star sprang out brilliant silver, like a glinting diamond in the deepening blue. The mountain tops were silhouetted against the coming night. And the three-headed wolf lay down flat on the mosaics, snuffling sadly, hiccupping and salivating, aware that its only hope of a meal had completely gone.
Hermes did not pause and together he and Nathan flew between the mountain peaks, away from the tower, the snow, and the danger. Leaning forwards over the goose’s neck, Nathan said, “Oh, thank you, thank you, Hermes. I was going to be eaten by that monster. But you heard my call.”
Over the wind, Hermes called back, “I am the Messenger of Clarr, my illustrious lord, and will always hear the summons of the Lord of Clarr sent through the Knife.”
Nathan sank back, cuddling beneath Hermes’ wind-blown feathers. “Yes, Clarr is wonderful,” he said. “But it’s horrible too. Danger and ice walls and puzzles and those caves underneath are awful.”
“The Caves of Clarr, my illustrious lord,” announced Hermes rather disapprovingly, “are beautiful in the light, with waterfalls, stalactites and stalagmites, and many other beautiful surprises.”
“Humph,” said Nathan, unconvinced. “Are we going to the veil? I think I’d like to go back to my own time and Granny Octobr’s house.” He sighed. “I need a rest, even if no one else is there.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Hermes called as the wind whistled. “And I shall stay to protect you.”
The veil was before them, and in the black starlit sky, it was even more glorious than usual. The dragonflies were illuminated in their fluorescent colours, their transparent wings gleaming and catching the studded starlight. Hermes flew on, and the veil parted. Then, quite suddenly Nathan could see modern London spread out below, with the twinkle of electric lights in windows and along the roadsides, the buzz of traffic and the flurry of people hurrying home for dinner out of the winter chill, their scarves up around their chins, running for buses or stamping their feet to keep warm at the bus stops.
Blind Man's Buff Page 3
