by V M Jones
‘Richard!’
‘OK, Kenta, OK … hey, what d’you guys reckon about that diary? Old Zane strikes me as a bit of a cheapskate — Zeel’s presents were way better, I’d say …’
A storm of protest greeted Rich’s loudly voiced opinion. ‘Your problem is that you don’t have a romantic bone in your body — or if you have, it’s covered in fat!’ retorted Gen.
‘Muscle, you mean …’
‘I’ve been trying to figure out that horse race,’ said Jamie thoughtfully. ‘But Zeel was right for once — it just doesn’t make sense.’
‘So what else is new?’ grumbled Rich.
‘First will be last, and last first … typical Karazan,’ said Gen.
‘Perhaps that’s the point: it’s a puzzle, and they have to figure it out — just like we always do,’ suggested Kenta.
‘Hmmm. Like, get the horses to run backwards, or something? Would horses do that?’
‘It’s easy enough to come last in a race — I know that,’ said Jamie ruefully. ‘But not if everyone else is trying to as well.’
Suddenly the idle chatter was interrupted by a sharp cry: a wordless exclamation of shock and revulsion.
It was Gen. She was almost invisible among the shadows of the trees, crouched over something on the ground. Rich gave me a grin and a wink as we hurried across. ‘Probably a worm. You know Gen …’
Gen had backed off, face crumpling as if she was about to cry. Cautiously, I followed Rich closer. It was easy to see what had brought Gen over there: the ground all round was strewn with dry sticks that would make perfect kindling. She was staring, pointing at a fallen tree trunk, rotting and covered in mossy lichen … and suddenly I knew it wasn’t a worm. The nagging feeling of unease I’d had since waking was stronger; I felt the back of my neck prickle, and the hairs on my arms rise. ‘Hold on Rich — be careful …’
Then we saw it. Half-hidden behind the tree trunk: a filthy, rumpled bundle of rags.
Kenta was behind me, peering warily over my shoulder. Rich gave us all a sheepish grin, and I realised he’d been worried for a moment too. ‘Come on, Gen — toughen up! It’s someone’s old socks or something, that’s all.’
But it was too big to be socks. A cloak, maybe … or a pack, discarded for some reason.
Rich bent and picked up a long stick. Old socks or not, he wasn’t about to touch it till he was sure, I noticed. Sidling forward, he brought the stick closer, ready to give the dark shape an exploratory poke.
A sudden squawk from Kenta made us jump. ‘Don’t, Richard! Leave it! It’s … oh, it’s …’
I caught her arm to stop her dashing forward. ‘It’s what? Don’t touch it, Kenta: you never know —’
She jerked away, and before I could stop her was over on her knees beside the log, reaching over with both hands. ‘Kenta …’ Rich might as well have saved his breath.
‘Oh!’ The softest exclamation, trembling on the edge of tears. ‘It’s a chatterbot! A poor little dead chatterbot.’
‘Ugh!’ said Jamie. ‘Adam’s right — don’t touch it. It’s probably full of maggots.’
‘No, it’s still warm — feel!’ Kenta lifted the limp, filthy body of the chatterbot out from behind the log, holding it out for us to see with her eyes full of tears.
‘Aw, c’mon, Kenta,’ grumbled Rich awkwardly, ‘there’s nothing to cry about. It’s nature’s way, you know? Survival of the fittest. Ask Jamie — he’ll tell you. Must happen all the time here in Chattering Wood.’
‘It’s just …’ she gulped, staring down at the small, limp body, ‘it’s just that it reminds me so much of Blue-bum.’
There was a long, awful silence. We all stared at the dead chatterbot in Kenta’s arms.
It was Jamie who said it. ‘That’s because it is Blue-bum. I’d know him anywhere. It’s our Blue-bum. Something terrible has happened to him, and he’s dead.’
Blue-bum
I stared down at the small, still body. I couldn’t believe it — wouldn’t. One chatterbot looked much the same as another — there were hordes of them in the forest, transformed from whatever they’d been before by drinking water from the talking stream. Who drinks of me shall be a chatterbot …
This could be any one of them … surely?
But I was in denial, and I knew it.
He lay in Kenta’s arms like an old, discarded toy. His fur, once so soft and silky, was tangled and matted with grime and what looked like dried blood. His face was oddly shrivelled, as if death had somehow folded it in on itself.
Rich was talking, his voice seeming to come from very far away. ‘… so if this really is Blue-bum — and I’m not convinced — then he was here in Chattering Wood, not selling us down the river to Karazeel like we thought.’
‘And that’d mean it wasn’t Weevil who helped him with the computer program,’ said Gen slowly.
‘But then who was it?’ objected Jamie. ‘They could never have figured it out themselves — not in a million years!’
‘I told you he’d never have done it!’ cried Kenta fiercely. ‘Poor thing — he must have tried to join the other chatterbots and been driven out, attacked …’ Her voice caught, and a tear plopped into the caked fur round the puckered little face.
‘Unless …’ said Richard.
‘Unless what?’ Kenta glared at him.
‘Unless he did help them — for whatever reason. I know you never really trusted him, Adam. And once they were finished with him, they threw him out … and he came here.’
‘He wouldn’t have helped them! Maybe at first, when he was Weevil still … but he changed. You know he did!’ Kenta was sobbing now. ‘He gave up his chance of escaping so we could get away — or have you forgotten that?’
‘Wait a second.’ There was an odd expression on Gen’s face. ‘Look at him — really look. Look at the state he’s in … and think about what it means. Yes, he’s obviously been attacked — killed — by the other chatterbots. But there are things …’ she hesitated, ‘things the chatterbots couldn’t have done. Look at his hands.’
I looked. The blood drained from my face. Blue-bum’s hands were curled into loose fists, but I could clearly see that what had once been blunt-fingered, nimble monkey-paws had been grotesquely stretched and twisted. The fingers were cruelly deformed, the nails crooked-looking as if someone had tried to wrench them out.
‘He’s been tortured,’ said Jamie blankly. ‘Horribly tortured, to make him tell.’
‘Look at his fur,’ whispered Gen. ‘There are patches missing everywhere, where it’s been yanked out.’ It was true — Blue-bum’s once-glossy fur had a mangy, balding look. ‘And his face. Even now, you can see the pain.’ She was right. It was no wonder we hadn’t recognised him at first. The leathery little face had a pathetic, shrunken look, etched with lines that made him look as if he’d aged a hundred years.
‘It doesn’t matter, anyhow,’ said Kenta. ‘Whatever he did or didn’t do — whatever the reasons — it’s over.’
‘What now?’ asked Richard bleakly.
I swallowed. Someone had to say it. But still, I could hardly get the words out. ‘We’ll bury him. It’s the last thing we can do for him; the only thing.’
I gazed down at him one last time. It was Blue-bum, and yet it wasn’t. That’s what death does, I guess.
A fat tear rolled down Kenta’s cheek and fell onto his face; then another.
And his skin gave the tiniest twitch.
Blue-bum was swaddled in Kenta’s cloak by the fire, only his face peeking out. His mouth was open a chink, and when I put my hand right up to it I could feel the faintest whisper of breath. His eyes were still closed. He wasn’t dead — yet. But I reckoned he was about as close to it as it was possible to get.
Where there was life …
‘Rich — the healing potion! It’s in my bag, wrapped in my shawl — quick!’ There wasn’t much left, but it would be more than enough to save a little chatterbot.
Kenta eased the cl
oak back from the little face and held him upright. I could feel the others crowded behind me. Carefully, I tipped a smidgen out of the shimmering crystal phial; there were still a few drops left, if we needed them. Held out the spoon, the potion gleaming in its silver bowl like a liquid pearl. ‘OK, Kenta, here we go …’
As I spoke, Blue-bum’s eyelids flickered and his eyes opened the minutest crack. They were dull and clouded, moving sluggishly from face to face as if he didn’t recognise us.
Kenta bent close, whispering urgently. ‘Blue-bum — Weevil — it’s us — Kenta and Gen and the boys! Oh, Blue-bum, what have they done to you? Don’t give up — please! Look: we’ve got the Healing Potion. One tiny sip and you’ll be well again.’
As we watched, the blankness in the button eyes was focusing into consciousness … recognition. If we needed any further proof that this was really Blue-bum, it was here, in the beginnings of a slit smile, weak as it was. But then suddenly his face contorted. Instead of opening his mouth like I’d expected, he shut it tight as a trap … turned his face away and squeezed his eyes closed, as if he wanted to blot out not only our faces, but the entire world.
‘Whatever’s the matter? Don’t you understand — it’s your only hope! Just a little, please, for me …’ begged Kenta.
My mind was spinning in circles. Blue-bum knew about the potion — knew its power. In his place, I’d have been swigging down every drop I could lay my hands on. He must surely know how close to death he was — so why …
‘Do you want to die?’ Kenta wailed.
Suddenly Gen was kneeling next to her, reaching out gentle hands to Blue-bum for the first time. ‘You poor little thing! That’s it — don’t you see?’ She looked up at us, tears shining on her cheeks. ‘That’s exactly what he wants! He feels he’s betrayed us all. Oh, Blue-bum … we’ve seen your poor hands; we know what they did to you. You couldn’t help it. No one blames you. We couldn’t bear it if you died. Take the potion — please — for all our sakes …’
Very, very slowly, Blue-bum’s head turned back. His eyes squinched reluctantly open, creeping hesitantly from face to face as if he was afraid of what he might see there. Anxious, eager faces peered back at him.
He looked at me last of all: a pitiful look that said clearer than words: And you, Adam? How about you? Can you find it in your heart to forgive me … for everything?
I gazed back at him, deep into his eyes. Something was niggling at the back of my mind, but I pushed it aside; forced myself to smile. ‘Come on, Blue-bum: drink up like a good boy,’ I said gruffly. ‘Whatever’s happened in the past can stay there. We don’t hold it against you — not a single one of us.’
Poor little guy
If we’d expected the potion to transform Blue-bum back into his old self, we were disappointed. Within a few moments he was sitting up, looking round alertly, and tucking into the plateful of tempting morsels the girls prepared for him like a chatterbot who hasn’t seen food for a year. Any obvious injuries there might have been — cuts, bites and abrasions — had healed without a trace, but it took over an hour with a facecloth and soap, Kenta’s water canteen and a comb to clean him up.
But whatever had been done to him seemed to go too deep for even the magical potion to cure completely. Apart from his scrawny body, moth-eaten fur and crippled hands, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before — or not for a long while, anyhow. The bright, inquisitive gaze had gone. In its place was a wary watchfulness, like a stray dog wondering where the next kick is coming from. Saddest of all, while he used to move easily, cantering along with long, loping strides and shimmying up and down trees like a spider monkey, now he could barely hobble.
Rich and I sat silently, bags packed and ready to go, watching Jamie and the girls fuss over him. At least, Kenta and Gen were fussing; it turned out Jamie had a more serious agenda. ‘By the way, Blue-bum,’ he said oh-so-casually, teasing the last few tangles out of the fur on Weevil’s tail, ‘those guys Karazeel and Evor: what exactly are they planning, d’you know? And more important, when? ’Cos it’d really help us if we knew, and it’d kind of make up for what you —’
A jibbering chitter interrupted him. At the sound of Karazeel and Evor’s names, Blue-bum had flinched as if he’d been hit; now he was cringing away, scooting backwards on his blue buttocks till only Jamie’s hold on his tail stopped him going further. Jamie saw us all watching and let go, blushing beetroot-red. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I just …’
Kenta scowled at him. ‘Well, don’t. Poor Blue-bum’s gone through more than we can ever imagine. It isn’t fair to expect him to re-live any part of it.’
Blue-bum limped across to her and scrambled clumsily onto her lap. She gave him a defensive hug, still glaring at Jamie. Rich and I exchanged a glance. Truth was, I’d had the exact same idea as Jamie, though I’d planned to give Blue-bum a bit longer to settle in before debriefing him; and by the look on Rich’s face, he had too. But now Jamie had blown it — if there’d ever been anything to blow. Blue-bum could chatter and chitter and jabber and gibber and do everything except actually talk, so the most we’d ever be able to hope for would be a kind of twenty questions, with yes/no answers.
And now, not even that.
In the end it was almost lunchtime before we finally got going. Kenta, in her self-appointed role of head nurse, made a nest in her pack with her cloak; Blue-bum snuggled down comfortably in it with his head peeking out, watching the rest of us share out her gear with what I thought was a rather smug expression.
‘We need to make up for lost time,’ growled Rich as we shouldered our now much-heavier packs. I nodded agreement. There was an edgy, anxious flutter under my ribs — the same pressured, scooped-out feeling you have when you know you’re going to be really late for school.
‘Oh, stop being so grumpy,’ said Gen, with an irritating toss of her tawny head. ‘Typical male: can’t bear to see anyone else get any attention. Come on, Kenta, we’ll lead the way — and if you boys can keep up, I’ll be impressed!’
Sure enough, she and Kenta raced off at a pace I was prepared to bet would burn them out in an hour. Jamie trundled along behind them, the occasional ‘Wait up, girls!’ drifting back to Rich and me.
It wasn’t long before we’d left the forest far behind and begun the slow ascent into the mountains. The track, which we’d joined up with north of Chattering Wood, began to wind and zigzag as it climbed. Far ahead we could see the dark dots of Jamie and the girls toiling upwards.
Last time we’d done this climb it had been autumn, in mist so thick we could barely see the path. Now, blazing sun beat down on our backs; I could feel my neck beginning to burn, and my shirt sticking to my back under my pack.
Behind me I could hear Rich huffing and puffing; ahead rose fold upon fold of nubbly grey-green hillside, steepening to rocky crags on the horizon. I stopped to wait for Rich, panting, pretending to admire the view.
The mountains stretched away on both sides, tumbling down in the east to purple plains patched with forest, and the occasional flash of distant sea. On the other side ran the main mountain range, north-south, dwarfing the one we were struggling up. The afternoon sun was lowering to meet its jagged peaks, the angle of its rays making the looming slopes seem semi-transparent, as insubstantial as gauze.
Rich came up beside me, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. ‘The track seems rougher than last time,’ he said when he’d regained his breath; ‘or is it just me?’
I looked back the way we’d come, considering. It did seem more eroded. Slips were making the going treacherous here and there, even on these lower slopes; there was more slippery scree than I remembered, and the path was overgrown in places with brush and grass.
There was another difference, too. Last time I’d had this constant electric tingle at the back of my neck; a feeling that at any moment someone was about to come up the track behind us. And with good reason: the track was the main thoroughfare between Arakesh and Shakesh, King Karaze
el’s stronghold. Now, that tingling feeling was gone. Looking back as far as I could see, right back to the distant smudge of Chattering Wood, there was only emptiness. And I felt in my bones it would stay that way.
I shrugged, and shot Richard a weary grin. ‘Maybe. Or it could just be that it’s so hot. I don’t think there’s such a thing as perfect weather for climbing a mountain, do you?’
We set off again, Rich in the lead now, me plugging along behind. There was something else on my mind: a thought I couldn’t shake, weighing heavier by far than the pack on my back.
‘Rich …’ I said hesitantly, ‘how does old Weevil — Blue-bum, I mean — seem, to you?’
‘What d’you mean, how does he seem?’ Rich grunted. ‘Seems like he’s had a tough time, poor little guy. But he’ll come right. Bound to, all the TLC he’s getting.’
We trudged on. Then: ‘Why? How does he seem to you?’
I didn’t want to say it. Different. We knew he was different; it was painfully, pitifully obvious. And I knew exactly what Richard would say if I tried to explain the slightly sick, lead-weight feeling in my gut. ‘Better not let Kenta hear you say that,’ he’d say. And, ‘Let’s face it, Adam, you never liked him. Poor little guy.’
But that wasn’t true. I had liked him, once he’d sprouted a tail and a bright blue bum; once he’d stopped stalking me, and turned cool and funny and sparky. Now that bright spirit was broken, at least for the time being, and through no fault of his. So what was my problem? Was I really the kind of guy who couldn’t forgive someone for doing exactly what I’d have done myself, in the same position?
I kicked at a stone and watched it bound away down the mountainside, bouncing and spinning till it disappeared into nothingness.
I realised Rich was still waiting for an answer.
‘Yeah,’ I muttered, ‘seems like he has had it pretty tough. Poor little guy.’
The Empty Cowl
