Earthborn

by Sylvia Waugh

  ‘Are you lost, love?’ said the man, coming up behind her and looking over her shoulder.

  Nesta jumped. Way down the road was the block of shops the bus had passed. One of them still seemed to be open with lights struggling through the fog. But it was too far away to offer any protection. No one was anywhere near.

  Nesta turned to face the stranger.

  ‘No, I am not lost. I am meeting a friend here. I’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘There’s a bench over there,’ said the man. ‘As cheap to sit as to stand.’

  For a moment, Nesta had the terrible thought that the man was going to offer to keep her company. She gave him a look of extreme terror.

  The man looked back at her and laughed.

  ‘I don’t eat little girls, you know,’ he said. ‘I am an extremely well-fed monster.’

  He turned away and walked on into the back alley, where, though Nesta did not know it, his wife and children were eagerly awaiting his return home.

  Nesta watched him go and then was glad to take his advice. She sat on the bench to think. But what thoughts, what dreadful thoughts on a cold, dark night!

  What on earth was she doing there, searching for a woman she had never met, hoping for solutions to an insoluble problem? Sadness took over and her mind became a maze of muddled thoughts.

  I have a broken heart.

  It seemed to her that her heart had turned brittle and shattered into sharp pieces, crunching into themselves like glass, inflicting terrible pain on her ribcage. And it was true. Where her heart should have been there was the deepest hurt.

  Her head of its own accord bent forward on to her hands and she sobbed.

  ‘Mom, oh Mom, why have I come to this?’

  She tried to stop crying but the tears of days had burst out and would not be dammed.

  ‘Please, God, help me,’ she cried. ‘Somebody help me.’

  At that moment, Nesta heard footsteps approaching. She drew herself back and rubbed her eyes with her sleeves. She looked furtively towards the path to see who was coming and sighed with relief when she saw it was just a boy of her own age, possibly younger. He was hurrying along with a plastic carrier bag in his hand.

  As he came to the bench, he gave Nesta what seemed to be no more than glance as he passed, but it was a perceptive glance. Mickey Trent, though only eleven, was born to care about people. He cared most about his mother, but that did not exclude anyone else who might seem in need of help. Mickey walked just a few yards before turning back.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, looking down at Nesta.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nesta tersely. Then she looked up at Mickey and crumbled.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not all right. I am in dreadful trouble and I don’t know what to do.’

  Mickey came and sat on the bench beside her, quite deferentially, and not too close. The plastic carrier bag was on the seat between them. It was full of books.

  ‘Can I get help for you? Is there anybody here you know?’

  With one hand he indicated the peripheries of the village.

  ‘I’m trying to find Mrs Dalrymple,’ said the girl more hopefully.

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Mickey. ‘She just lives over there.’

  He pointed diagonally at the row of cottages way over the west of the Green.

  ‘That’s Merrivale,’ he said. ‘She lives at Number 12. My best friend used to live at Number 13.’

  Nesta looked at him curiously.

  ‘Do you know Thomas Derwent?’ she said.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Mickey. ‘He’s the one used to live at Number 13, before he went.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ said Nesta.

  ‘Away,’ said Mickey. ‘Right away from here.’

  ‘He’s the boy who disappeared, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mickey, sealing his lips on the word.

  ‘I think I might be distantly related to him,’ said Nesta.

  ‘You couldn’t be,’ said Mickey spontaneously.

  Nesta might have given a longer argument in return, full of invented circumstantial evidence, but she didn’t. She just looked directly at Mickey and held his gaze.

  ‘I could,’ she said firmly, ‘and I think I am.’

  Mickey gasped and he understood what she was saying. Then he sneezed hard, further proof, if needed, that the girl was somehow part of the mystery that he and Mrs Dalrymple had silently shared these past weeks.

  ‘I think you should go to Mrs Dalrymple’s now,’ said Mickey. ‘She knows more than I do. And my mam’ll be getting worried. I’ve just been to Auntie Fay’s for her library books. I’ll have to be getting home. I’ll walk with you to Mrs Dalrymple’s door, if you come now. It’s on my way.’

  Nesta rubbed her eyes again, got up from the seat, slung her bag on her shoulder and felt the beginnings of optimism. The worst was surely over.

  They went through the white gate into the little garden. Mickey rang the doorbell. A light went on inside and then the door opened.

  ‘What is it, Mickey?’ said Mrs Dalrymple, looking down at the boy and glancing at the girl standing there beside him.

  ‘This is a friend of Thomas’s,’ he said. ‘She came here to see you, but she didn’t know where you lived. She says she’s related to Thomas. She wants to talk to you. I don’t think she’s from the papers or anything.’

  And, true enough, the girl did not have the appearance of a reporter or a snoopy investigator!

  ‘Come in, the two of you,’ said Mrs Dalrymple, holding the door wide. ‘We can talk about it over a cup of tea.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Mickey. ‘I’ll have to get home. My mam’ll just start worrying if I don’t.’

  Stella Dalrymple smiled. Mickey’s mam was a famous worrier!

  Mickey gave her a wave as he hurried off home.

  ‘Well, come in . . .?’ she said to Nesta, the raised voice clearly asking for a name.

  ‘I’m Nesta,’ said the girl.

  ‘And I’m Stella,’ said Mrs Dalrymple. ‘Come on in and tell me all about it.’

  CHAPTER 33

  * * *

  A Strange Farewell

  The policemen had gone.

  Alison and Matthew were left alone in a house that somehow vibrated with all the trouble that swirled about it. In the back garden, beneath the frog, the spaceship’s communicator was working furiously, sending out signals to the house. Ormingat does not readily give up on its people.

  There was even an Ormingat search going on for Nesta, but the girl was impossible to find. There was nothing there to hold on to, no way of reaching out and talking to her. Matthew and Alison knew that only too well. Nesta was truly a child of the Earth, unschooled in any lore of Ormingat.

  Upstairs in the Gwynn house, the clock radio grated out the words, Come-to-the-source. Take-heed-of-time. Beware-of-ending. This went on for best part of an hour until the equipment paused for breath. It was a makeshift line of communication, not designed for such a use.

  Downstairs, the Gwynns never heard it. But they felt a pull towards the rear of the house that they resisted with all their might. They intended to remain on Earth for the sake of their daughter, but they knew that their real place at that moment was in the ship and they were fighting not only against the outside force, but against feelings inside themselves. We are of Ormingat and not of Earth. Without the ship, that will be our loss for ever.

  The clock on the mantelpiece beat time loudly.

  At midnight, Matthew said, ‘Best if we go to bed. I know we won’t sleep, but at least it is the natural place to be at this hour. We can lie in the darkness and wait for the time to pass.’

  ‘But what will happen when the spaceship leaves? How will it leave? Will it not be seen shooting up into the sky?’

  ‘Too small,’ said Matthew. ‘It will travel like a spark out into the darkness never to be seen again.’

  One thing they had forgotten was the frog. The bulky stone frog was squatting on top of the
spaceship’s flight path. It was only when they were lying in bed that Alison thought of the problem.

  ‘What about the frog?’ she said. ‘Even though we ourselves are not leaving, maybe we should have emptied the pond and moved the frog. It was empty when we first arrived. We had to figure out what to do with the frog that was lying on the lawn. We even had to find the valve to fill the pond.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Allie,’ said Matthew, yawning. ‘The power of Ormingat is strong enough to pass through anything, even stone. Departure is much simpler than arrival. They are masters of illusion, remember. Their science is way in advance of anything on this Earth. Atoms will split for them, split and rejoin. They know what they are doing.’

  ‘You give them too much credit,’ said Alison bitterly. ‘They could not find our daughter. We don’t really know what they can or cannot do.’

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t want to find her,’ said Matthew. ‘It could be that they are somehow inhibited by her wish not to be found.’

  To that, Alison could find no answer.

  At one o’clock in the morning, the radio, which had fallen silent some time before the Gwynns came to their room, suddenly began to buzz again. Matthew started up. Alison grasped his arm. They listened.

  Time-is-gone. The radio’s grating sound was huskier, almost as if filled with emotion. The-door-is-closed. You-are-lost-to-us-for-all-time.

  Then came a sound as of muffled weeping.

  Closed-door. Time-gone. You-lost. The radio spoke more tersely, sounding unutterably sad.

  The accent had changed, slightly but perceptibly. The machine – that was after all just a machine – was suddenly conveying a deep emotion. It was as if their parents and their grandparents were sending one last message out to them.

  Matthew and Alison heard it and were filled with grief and guilt and doubt. Are we losing too much for a child who might already be lost? They shared the thought and sighed deeply, still watching the clock radio as its digits ticked off the minutes.

  No-more-can-we-do. We-love-you. We-always-love-you.

  Then the voice went dead and the digits on the clock blanked out. Time was passing. To the absolute limit of Ormingat ability, the strange farewell had been said.

  ‘We have lost them . . . or they have lost us,’ said Matthew. There had been no last-minute reprieve. If, at that moment, the chance had offered, he might even have returned to Ormingat alone.

  Alison sighed, feeling more for him than with him. Yes, undeniably yes, the loss was great, but for her there was an emotion even more important that weakened the impact of the mournful voice. My child means more than a myriad of ancestors.

  ‘I need Nesta,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, oh tomorrow, when she returns to us, we’ll learn to cope with our other loss. Nothing matters more to me than the return of our daughter.’

  Matthew could not speak.

  Now that the clock was dead, he needed to look at his watch to see the time. Just as he switched on the bedside lamp and saw that the fatal hour of two was almost there, a gigantic explosion shook the house.

  Windows rattled.

  Plaster cracked inside the walls.

  The sound of a high-pitched whistle invaded their ears.

  ‘What on earth can that be?’ cried Alison.

  ‘The ship!’ said Matthew, grabbing his dressing gown and dashing to the bedroom door. ‘The spaceship has had to burst out of its confinement. We should have moved the frog.’

  But from the back bedroom window, he could see nothing. The garden was in deep darkness. He and Alison ran downstairs and out into the night. They rushed up to the pond. The grass around it was wet. The basin was empty of water, but spattered with bits of masonry, leaves broken off from the lily pad.

  The frog was nowhere in sight.

  CHAPTER 34

  * * *

  Stella and Nesta

  ‘You look perished,’ said Stella as she took a very grateful and almost tearful Nesta into the sitting room with its crackling fire and cosy armchairs.

  ‘I’ll take your coat. Put this rug around you till you warm up,’ said Stella, ‘and I’ll go and make you a warm drink. Tea? Chocolate?’

  Nesta handed over her coat and said, ‘Tea, please,’ in a voice that was almost mechanical. The contrast between the cold misery of the bench on the Green and the warmth and comfort of this little house was too great to digest straight away. Stella guided her to the armchair and draped the tartan travel rug around her shoulders. First things first: Stella did not know who this child might be or why she was there, but she knew at a glance that here was misery and discomfort that needed instant care.

  ‘Would you like some soup? I’ve only got vegetable and it is tinned, but it would warm you up,’ called Stella from the other room. ‘Nice fresh rolls though – I can pop them in to warm.’

  She appeared in the doorway and waited for her visitor to give a reply.

  ‘I’d love some,’ said Nesta, her eyes greyer than ever and brimming with tears again. It wasn’t now the misery that was making her tearful, it was the warmth of the room and the sweet relief of having this lovely, fairy godmother of a lady suddenly there to look after her.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Stella briskly. ‘Nothing’s broken that can’t be mended.’

  That made her guest feel almost cheerful.

  ‘I’ll put the TV on for you if you like. Just the news, but it’s company.’

  ‘No,’ said Nesta quickly. ‘Please no. I’ll just sit and watch the fire.’

  Stella smiled and went back to the kitchen, not suspecting that Nesta had good reasons for not wanting to see the news. There was that image she had seen in the TV shop window: herself on screen, a missing person. Nesta would have explanations enough to make without the added burden of facing up to whatever was being said about her on the television.

  Mickey Trent gasped when he saw Nesta’s picture. He and his mother were sitting with supper trays watching the Northern News.

  ‘What is it?’ said his mother. Jenny Trent had heard the gasp and was instantly worried in case something was wrong.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mickey. ‘Just a hot chip.’

  So, he was thinking, the girl’s parents have reported her disappearance to the police. What did that mean? Should he tell, should he say he had seen her? It was dilemma time again – Mickey was learning that life is full of difficult decisions.

  Leave it to Mrs Dalrymple, said his heart. Tell no one.

  That was enough: Mickey’s heart was always in the right place, a fact his head was quick to recognize.

  ‘There now,’ said Stella as she brought in the tray, ‘hot soup, warm rolls and a nice mug of tea.’

  She set the tray down on the coffee table and sat down facing Nesta.

  ‘Thank you so much, Stella,’ said the girl. She took a sip from the tea and felt its warmth inside her. The rug slipped from her shoulders but she did not need it now.

  ‘You’ll be wondering . . .’ she began, faltering, as she broke a roll in two and dipped it in the hot soup.

  ‘I am,’ said Stella with a smile, ‘but I can wait until you’re fed and comfortable. It’s impossible to tell a good story on an empty stomach.’

  Nesta was well satisfied with that. It gave her time to think.

  ‘Well,’ said Stella after they had sat quiet for some minutes, ‘perhaps I should start first. My name is Stella Dalrymple and I have lived here in this village for most of my life. For five years I had these lovely neighbours called Derwent. The father was Patrick. His son was Thomas, whom you think might be a relative of yours.’

  ‘Not quite a relative exactly,’ said Nesta uneasily. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  Stella could see that her visitor was struggling to find words. The girl looked so tired it was all Stella could do not to say, I’ll make up the bed in the spare room; we’ll talk tomorrow when you’ve had a good sleep. But she couldn’t do that. Here was a girl of twelve or thirteen maybe, brought in from
the cold like a poor, sick animal. Her parents, or whoever had charge of her, must surely be frantic. It was only the Thomas connection that stopped Stella lifting the telephone there and then and talking to the police.

  ‘I have to know where you are from,’ said Stella carefully. ‘You are a young girl alone in a strange place on a dark evening. I suspect your parents don’t know where you are. And if they don’t, they will be very worried. Have you run away from home?’

  The direct question was accompanied by a very direct look straight into the girl’s eyes. And the answer was there: of course she had run away.

  ‘Why?’ said Stella. She put her cup down on the coffee table, leant forward earnestly, clasped Nesta’s hands in hers, and waited for an answer.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ said Nesta. ‘There are things I can’t tell you because I am not supposed to tell. I have been specially told not to tell. In any case, they are things you would never believe. No one would. You would think I was mad, or telling lies.’

  ‘Let’s start by your telling me as much as you can,’ said Stella gently.

  ‘If I tell you enough to guess,’ said Nesta tentatively, ‘you must never tell anybody else.’

  ‘I am not sure that I can promise that,’ said Stella. ‘If you have done something illegal or very wrong, I would have to tell. But if it is what I half think it is, then maybe I have already guessed. And I have already stayed silent. Exchange a secret for a secret?’

  Nesta nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ll begin. And my secret has to start with a story about a little boy just six years old who came into my life with his father and who told me what seemed to be the most outrageous lies.’

  Nesta looked interested. She knew all about stories that sounded fantastic. She felt she was part of one.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ she said.

  ‘It was lovely,’ said Stella. ‘He sat where you are sitting now and told me that he was from another planet and had travelled here in a ship the size of a golf ball.’