The Guardians

by John Christopher

  “I could manage better.” It was not a boast but a statement of fact. “I mean, I could kill game and cook it—that sort of thing. But I wouldn’t like to have to live that way for long.”

  “I thought I might get work of some kind. I don’t mind what.”

  “Bit young, aren’t you? And they’d want to know where you came from. Countrymen don’t usually move far from their own village.”

  He spoke judiciously but it was plain that he thought it a completely harebrained scheme. As it was, Rob realized.

  “You’re going to report me?”

  “We need time to think,” Mike said. “If I could hide you somewhere for the present . . . It’s lucky that I’m at home. I ought to have been back at school but I was ill last term and I’m still convalescent. I had glandular fever and then a go of brain fever afterward. So I’m supposed to be taking things easy.”

  He did not look ill; the reverse in fact.

  “I could make myself some sort of a shelter in the wood, perhaps.”

  “No good,” Mike said, frowning. “The keepers are pretty thorough. I could smuggle you into the house, but it wouldn’t be safe. My parents and Cecily might not spot you but the servants would. It will have to be outside. Not the stables, because of the grooms.” He snapped his fingers. “I think I’ve got it. A cave I found farther up the valley. Well, not so much a cave as a kind of building underground. We could fit it up for you, and I could bring food.”

  Could it work? It would give him a chance to lie up, to recuperate. He felt grateful but in a distant, almost disbelieving way. He did not know why the fair-haired boy wanted to help him. A trap of some kind? But at least it was a reprieve.

  “I don’t mind what it’s like,” he said.

  “The men will be up in the top fields this afternoon so I could take you around by the river. I’ll put you up on Captain.”

  Captain was presumably the horse.

  “I think I can manage to walk.”

  “No.” The refusal had authority. “I’ll go and pick up the stuff you dropped. Better get your shoes and socks on for now and we’ll see about dressing your feet later.”

  Rob did so, wincing. Mike showed him how to mount the horse, explaining how you had to twist the stirrup and stand facing the horse’s tail. He spoke soothingly to the horse as Rob scrambled on.

  He seemed to be a long way from the ground. And the animal underneath him was unstable, shifting its feet and pulling against Mike’s hands holding the reins. Mike called out, “Whoah! Steady, boy. Take it easy.”

  The horse quietened but Rob still felt unhappy about it.

  “Take the reins,” Mike ordered. “I’ll hang on to the snaffle.”

  They moved and Rob felt the jolt of the hooves under him. If it was as uncomfortable as this just walking, he wondered, what must galloping be like?

  • • •

  The river ran through a small valley, much closer to one side than the other. A road followed the near bank and above that was wooded country. They had come close to the road at one point and Rob saw that it was brown in color; like earth, but too smooth to be earth. He asked about it, and Mike explained.

  “It’s a plastic. You have different surfaces in the Conurb? I suppose you would. This is specially made for horses. It’s fairly soft and resilient—easy on the hooves.”

  “Doesn’t it wear quickly?”

  Mike shrugged. “Depends how much use it gets. It’s only used for horses and carriages, of course. And it’s fairly easily repaired. There’s a machine that lays and smooths it at about a mile an hour. Look, I’m afraid you’re going to have to foot it the rest of the way. I can’t get Captain any farther through the trees. It’s not far now, though.”

  “That’s all right. How do I get off?”

  “Just cock your leg over.” He watched critically as Rob struggled to dismount. “Hang on while I tie him up.”

  The horse whinnied after him as they went away.

  “Want to hold on to me?”

  “No, thanks.” Rob gritted his teeth. “I’m all right.”

  In places they had to force a way through undergrowth. Mike commented that it was a good thing; it was less likely that anyone else would come this way. They were on rising ground, thick with trees of different kinds and sizes. After ten minutes they broke through into a more open space looking up to the crest of the hill, a grassy hump overgrown with brambles and creepers. Rob looked for the cave but could see nothing.

  “Bearing up?” Mike asked. “Over here.”

  He led the way across the clearing to a point where the brambles ended. Carefully he pulled at a tangle of thorn. It came clear and there was a way behind it. You had to squeeze close to the side of the hill on one side; on the other you were concealed by the undergrowth.

  Mike, pushing ahead of him, said, “I found it when Tess went in after a rabbit. That’s my dog. I thought I might turn it into a den or something, but I never did. I left it covered so that no one else would find it. Here we are.”

  There was an opening, framed in crumbling concrete, about three feet wide and four high. Rob ducked to follow Mike in. It was dark, because very little light filtered through the tangle of leaves and briars outside. Rob could just see that they were in some sort of chamber, a six-foot cube or thereabouts. Like the doorway it was built of concrete.

  “What was it for?” he asked. “Who would want to build something like this, inside a hill?”

  “There’s more of it higher up but it’s broken and overgrown. I think this was just an extra way out. It was probably a gun battery—for firing at aircraft. Something out of the Hitler War, anyway.”

  “As old as that?”

  “Maybe older. They had aircraft in the previous war, too, didn’t they?” He looked around. “It’s a bit rough. Do you think you’ll be all right?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “We can make some improvements. I’ll go and get a few things now. You don’t have to stay in here as long as you dodge back if you hear anyone coming up through the wood. When I come back, I’ll whistle.” He demonstrated a call on two notes. “O.K.?”

  Rob nodded. “O.K.”

  He waited lying out in the grass. Trees and the hill cut off most of the sky but there was a patch of sunlight. The silence and isolation, the dark alien quality of the wood, troubled him a little. Mike was a long time gone. The patch of sunlight moved away from the clearing and now lit only the side of the hill above the brambles. It was less warm and he shivered. He dismissed a suspicion that Mike might have had second thoughts: there was something about him which was dependable. Two rabbits appeared from the wood and he watched them, fascinated. It was hard to believe he was really here, in the County, with plants budding, wild things living all around him. And yet already this was the reality, the Conurb—with its packed streets, high-rise buildings, crawling electrocars—the fantasy.

  The rabbits pricked up their ears and in a moment, with a flash of white tail, were gone. He heard Mike’s whistle below in the wood.

  He was heavily weighted down, a large bundle slung over one shoulder and a bag in his right hand. He dropped them on the grass and said, “Sorry I’ve taken so long. It seemed a good idea to tackle things as thoroughly as possible.” He kicked the bundle. “Blankets and a pillow. I think I can get a camp bed up eventually but for the present it will have to be a hard lie. You won’t freeze to death, though. No sheets, I’m afraid.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How are those feet?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Let’s have a go at them.”

  He watched while Rob gingerly removed shoes and socks. The rubbed blisters had been bleeding again.

  “One snag is that the nearest water is ten minutes away,” Mike said. “They could really do with bathing properly. But I’ve got some antiseptic tissues which will clean them up. May smart a bit.”

  It did. Rob found himself involuntarily drawing his foot away as Mike dabbed at the
raw patches. Mike did not apologize but gripped the foot more securely and carried on. When he had finished the cleaning he applied adhesive dressings. He took a rolled pair of socks out of the bag and tossed them to Rob.

  “Put those on.” He looked at the discarded pair which were worn into holes. “No point in keeping these. I’ll ditch them somewhere. Are you feeling hungry?”

  “I had some stale bread and moldy cheese last night, and a few raw potatoes today. Yes, I’m hungry.”

  “Well, you’re going to have bread and cheese again. It was all I could lay hands on. But at least it’s not stale or moldy.”

  He produced a loaf and a hunk of cheese, wrapped in a muslin cloth.

  “Have you got a knife?” Rob shook his head. “You didn’t come as well prepared as you might have done for an expedition like this, did you?”

  The comment, though amiable in tone, was a bit scathing.

  “I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare anything,” Rob replied. “And I ran away from school on Sunday, when the shops were closed.”

  “Don’t you carry a pocket knife?”

  “In the Conurb? Not unless you want trouble with the police. They’re called offensive weapons.”

  Mike shook his head, uncomprehendingly. “Better have this.” He unclipped a heavy bone-handled knife from his belt. “Keep it. I’ve got another at home. I’ll nip along and get some water while you’re eating. I’ve brought a jerry can.”

  He took it and went off through the wood. Rob started hungrily on the food. The bread was brown and crusty, soft and white inside. Both smell and taste were new, and far better than anything he was used to. The same was true of the cheese which was golden yellow, smooth and strong. Rob ate half, and half the loaf, and wrapped up the remainder. He heard Mike’s whistle and saw him appear carrying the jerry can full of water. He drank thirstily.

  “I’ll get cups and stuff in due course,” Mike said. “Let’s get the gear inside and out of the way.”

  In the near darkness of the concrete cell they put things down. While Rob was unpacking blankets, Mike fiddled with something like a portable lumoglobe but with a different, less regular shape. He brought out a pocket lighter and lit it with a naked flame. A soft light bloomed. Rob asked him what it was.

  “This? Oil lamp. No, I don’t suppose you would have them on your side. I’ll have to bring oil up, but it’s full at the moment. You’d better have this lighter, too.” It was not very different in principle to those sold in the Conurb, but heavy and silvery in color instead of being light and brightly patterned. “Look, it will be better if you use the inner room as your base.”

  A low doorway at the back led to another slightly larger cell. In the corner were steps leading upward. Mike held the lamp forward.

  “That’s the way up to the main part I told you about. It’s blocked with rubble. Stay here. I’m just going outside to see if the light shows.” Returning, he said: “I’m fairly sure it’s O.K., but you’d probably better recheck after dark. If it does get through you can probably rig up one of the blankets as a screen.”

  Rob nodded.

  “I’m going to leave you now,” Mike said. “I have a tutor who comes around since I’m not at school. I’m late for him already. You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes. Thanks for everything.”

  Mike made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll get along as early as I can tomorrow. You don’t have to stick in here, but be careful when you’re outside. Make sure you don’t leave traces.” He grinned. “Sleep well.”

  • • •

  Time passed very slowly. Rob did go outside but no farther than the clearing. He had moments of elation at having found a refuge, alternating with depression in which he thought he might as well have turned back or given himself up for the good it would do him in the long run. And loneliness. It was bad enough in the clearing, much worse inside the four blank walls of the cell, watching his shadow on the wall.

  Dusk came and deepened into night. He checked outside for light showing; then went in and ate the remainder of the bread and cheese. He decided after that he might as well go to bed. He rolled himself into the blankets and put out the lamp.

  He was very tired, having had so little sleep the night before, and expected to drop off quickly. The hardness of the floor proved no bar to this, but he thought again of his isolation, inside a hill, surrounded by dark rustling trees. And animals? He came awake on that. There was nothing frightening about rabbits, but what of others? Were there bigger ones roaming loose—wolves maybe? He thought he heard something and strained his ears uselessly to catch and identify the sound.

  Sleep had gone. He put on the lamp again and peered into the outer room. Nothing. He rigged up a barrier in the doorway, with the bag and the jerry can. It would not even keep a rabbit out but it might give him a slight warning of anything trying to get in.

  He was awake for a long time and then slept heavily. He awoke to a hand on his shoulder and looked up blinking to see Mike standing over him.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I’ve brought some sausages and I thought you’d like to eat them while they’re fairly hot. Coffee, too. How did you sleep, by the way?”

  The fears of the night were only shameful fancies. “Pretty well, thanks.”

  • • •

  Mike came up every day, sometimes more than once. He brought food and other things—soap, clean clothes, eating utensils, on the third day a collapsible wood-and-canvas bed. He asked Rob if there was anything else he would like.

  “You haven’t any books you could lend me, I suppose?”

  “Books?” He sounded surprised.

  “It gets a bit boring in the evenings,” Rob said.

  “Yes. I can see it would. It was just . . .” He looked at Rob in frank inquiry. “I didn’t know people read books in the Conurbs.”

  “Not many do.”

  “It’s funny . . .”

  “What is?”

  “The way one takes things for granted,” Mike said. “About the Conurbs. About the County, too, come to that. About ourselves, I suppose.”

  “I’ve thought of that, myself. About taking things for granted, I mean. Look, if it’s going to be difficult . . .”

  “Difficult?” Mike’s expression cleared. “Not a bit. I’ll bring some next time. What sort of thing do you like?”

  “Historical adventures. But anything will do.”

  Mike brought two books, bound in rich brown leather and smelling of age. One was Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour, the other My Life on the Zambezi. The first was about fox hunting, the second an account of life in primitive Africa in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Later, he asked Rob how he was getting on with them.

  “All right,” Rob answered cautiously.

  “Surtees is good, isn’t he?”

  That was the author of Mr. Sponge.

  “I don’t understand much about fox hunting,” Rob said. “Do you people still do it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you?” Mike nodded. “You like it?”

  “Great stuff,” Mike said. “A good run on a sharp morning—it’s marvelous.”

  “Scores of people on horseback,” Rob said, “with a pack of hounds chasing one small animal. It’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?”

  Mike stared at him, and in a cold voice said, “You were right in saying you don’t understand it.”

  The critical tone reminded Rob of how much he owed Mike, and how dependent he was on him.

  “You’re right. There aren’t any foxes in the Conurbs.”

  Mike looked at him for a moment, then laughed.

  “No. There wouldn’t be. The other book, by the way, is by some ancestor of mine. He was a missionary and eventually became a bishop. Terrible old bore, but I was in a rush and these were the first I got hold of. I’ll look for some adventure stories before tomorrow.”

  • • •

  One evening Rob ventured farther than usual. He knew roughly the way Mike
took on his journey home and he followed it, staying under cover as much as possible. He came at last to the edge of a field with a view over open ground.

  The road here left the river and turned sharply right, disappearing over the brow of a hill half a mile away. Almost opposite, on the far side of the road, was a large green-painted gate supported by stone pillars. From it a reddish drive ran through parkland to a house whose grounds were bounded farther down by the broad silver stripe of the river.

  He knew this must be where Mike lived though it was difficult to believe that so vast a place could be the home of a single small family—Mike, his mother and father, and Cecily, his sister. It was built of gray stone and had an irregular rambling look, as though different parts had been added at different times. He tried to count the windows along the front but gave up. There were more buildings at the back, forming an L to the main structure. He saw activity there: horses being harnessed to a carriage that was painted black with canary yellow panels. He watched the carriage being driven around to the front of the house. A figure which he could see was that of a woman came down the steps from the front door, attended by a man in blue uniform, and was helped to enter. He heard a distant cry from the coachman and with a toss of reins the carriage was driven away, along the drive through the gates, to disappear where the road climbed the hill.

  He mentioned it to Mike on his next visit. Mike nodded.

  “Mother, visiting the Caprons. They live five miles from us.”

  “A house of that size,” Rob said, “—how can you possibly use it all? It’s enormous.”

  “Enormous?” Mike was surprised. “Not really. Just an average-sized manor house. As for using it all, there are the servants, of course.”

  “How many?”

  “Servants? I’m not quite sure. About twenty? That’s the indoor staff.”

  “Twenty people to look after four?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why do they put up with it?”

  “Put up? There’s nothing to put up with. They don’t have a bad life, one way and another. Not much work, and all sorts of privileges. They reckon they’re a lot better off than they would be in a Conurb: more space, better food, the country—a better life altogether. They despise the Conurbans.”