by Caro King
Flames filled the sky with gold and she remembered what it had been like to be up there with the inferno. For a second she was filled with a sense of loss so intense that she wanted more than anything to go back.
That’s what it must be like for Jonas, she thought, only all the time. She lay where she was and watched the sky until the sun was up and the flames were just daylight. Then she sat up and looked around. Skerridge was a bundle of cloth and bones in a heap a few feet away. Jik was standing, patiently watching over them. The candle was still burning.
As soon as she moved to get up, Skerridge bounced to his feet.
‘Them crowsmorte candles do all they can in one night only, so I’d save the rest. Peace o’ mind don’ come cheap, y’know.’
As she blew out the flame, Jonas opened his eyes. The bad thing was that they were still glowing white. The good thing was that he looked at her and said, ‘Nin?’
Nin nodded, squeezing her eyes shut against tears of relief. ‘Um … do you … like … remember anything?’
‘Everything.’ A look of pain crossed his face as he sat up. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘I couldn’t leave you.’
‘Why not?’ Now something like a snarl had crept into his voice and the white gleam in his eye brightened into light.
‘You … you would have become one of them.’
Now he did snarl. ‘I am one of them! Stupid brat. They’ll never take me back now, will they? You’ve seen to that. And to think I helped you! Right at the start, I should’ve left you to be gored by the bull.’ He turned and strode away.
‘No,’ yelled Nin after him, fighting tears. ‘You’re not one of them! You’re not.’
Jonas stopped a the edge of the sea and looked longingly up at the sky. ‘Did you see the dawn? Did you feel it?’
Nin nodded. ‘But it’s not where you belong. You’ll see.’
At mid-morning they stopped to rest and Skerridge lit a fire, then disappeared off to get breakfast. Nin huddled next to it feeling cold to her heart. Jonas was standing nearby, gazing at the sky again, with Jik keeping guard.
Jonas had said little, but then he hadn’t howled or snarled either. He still shook her off whenever she got too close, but at least he did look at her when she spoke to him.
‘Jus’ bread an’ cheese this time,’ said a voice at her side. ‘An’ I ’ad t’ go a few miles fer that!’
Nin eyed him thoughtfully. ‘How exactly do you pay for it?’
‘Pay?’ Skerridge looked puzzled. ‘Oh pay! Y’mean what do they get fer givin’ me their bread an’ stuff ?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well they don’ get anythin’ as such.’
‘So you steal it?’
‘Not ’xactly. I makes it up to ’em by not wreakin’ ’avoc in their whereabouts. So I s’pose ya could say they gets peace an’ quiet. Which is a good bargain if y’ arsk me.’
Nin shook her head.
‘Anyway. Wha’s wrong wiv bein’ a thief ? Tha’s what I am. Tha’s what I do fer a livin’. I’m the thief of yew.’
Nin laughed. ‘You haven’t got me yet, Skerridge,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You haven’t got me yet!’
The bogeyman paused in the middle of shoving some cheese into a hunk of bread. Then he grinned. Then he laughed.
‘Yer quite right,’ he chuckled. ‘I ’aven’t, ’ave I?’
Nin thought the journey would never end. The sand rolled out forever and she trudged on with her mind empty of everything except keeping Jonas in view.
Skerridge followed Nin, carrying Jik on his shoulders. Beside them the waves rolled in, cold and bleak, the sea stallions frighteningly large as they dashed themselves to foam on the beach. Her legs hurt and her feet were sore, burning lumps. It was early afternoon and they had been walking since dawn.
‘We’re ’ere,’ said Skerridge.
The sand had been slowly turning into shingle and now it ended in a cliff that towered against the sky. Sea surged around the rocks at its base, forcing them inland.
‘It ain’t nat’ral. Made by magic years before the plague, that was. Sorcerers used t’ like messin’ around wiv the Land. There’s a way up furver round.’
The way up proved to be a ladder of rock. Nin’s heart sank, but she drew a slow breath, wiped her hands on her jeans and took hold of the stone. It was a long, hard climb. Skerridge ran up the wall beside her, offering help that she stubbornly refused. Jik, still perched on the BM’s shoulders, hung on grimly, his stubby hands clasped around Skerridge’s head.
By the time they reached the top, Nin was worn out. They had come out on a grassy slope edged with tall trees and flowering shrubs. In front of her ran a stretch of lawn, overgrown with wild roses. The remains of a path wound through the shrubbery and up past a white ruined building that looked like a temple. Then up some more.
At the top of the hill was the Terrible House.
It towered against the sky in a jumble of chimney pots and dark stone. Ravens circled the bell tower and the pointed roofs, and all the windows were gone, bricked in and mostly covered with ivy. The House was perched on a corner of cliff and, on the right-hand side, the walls seemed one with the precipice. A wedge of evergreens stood tall and dark against the left. Nin could see no signs of life anywhere. It looked blank and forbidding, a place that kept secrets.
Nin shivered. Her tired legs refused to take her any further and she found herself sitting on the ground with no idea how she got there. She couldn’t see Jonas anywhere. Jik had gone after him and Nin could hear the mudman in the distance, calling at the top of his voice.
Skerridge loomed over her, his ugly, tooth-filled face hovering close to hers. His red eyes gleamed in the shadowy light. This is it, she thought, he’s going to put me in the sack and I’m too tired to do anything about it.
Then everything went dark.
Jonas
Part Two
The Terrible House of Strood
Jik
22
Strood
he world turned on its head. Scrunched up in a ball, Nin stuck out a hand and touched rough cloth. She wailed, tears stinging her eyes.
‘Yer inna sack, live wiv it,’ muttered Skerridge. He was already on the move and the bobbing up and down as he hurried towards the Terrible House of Strood made her queasy.
‘How could you do this to me after all we’ve been through!’ For some reason Nin felt betrayed, even though Skerridge had warned her. ‘Do you really NEED to be the champion? I mean …’
‘Yep.’
‘Skerridge!’
‘Give it up, kid, yer goin’ to Mr Strood an’ tha’s that.’
Nin struggled, her despair turning to anger. ‘You … you …!’
‘Bogeyman,’ said Skerridge patiently, ‘the word yer lookin’ for is bogeyman. An’ this is what bogeymen do.’
She gave up and snivelled quietly. She was too tired to deal with this. It wasn’t fair. Her sacking prison shook and joggled.
‘We’re up at the ’Ouse now. The main part is where Mr Strood lives alonga the guards. Mostly everyone else lives in the extension. Which is, like, at the back. And down some.’
‘Down?’
‘Yeah. Right down in the cliff, like. Oh, an’ out under the beach a bit an’ all. The front ’all an’ that is traps an’ guards, but ya don’ need t’ know that cos even if ya survived, which ya won’t, only a turnip’d try gettin’ out that way.’ Something in his tone made Nin listen carefully.
Skerridge chuckled. ‘Course, fing is they say there’s anovver way out. Seraphine’s Secret Way, they call it. No one knows fer sure where it is, not even us bogeymen. Rumour ’as it ya go right down past the storerooms, the livin’ quarters an’ all that, then frew the graveyard an’ there is it.’
Suddenly Nin realised what he was doing. ‘I suppose,’ she said cautiously, ‘once you’ve handed me over you’re still champion kid-catcher. If I, like, got away then it would be Strood who lost me, not you.’
Skerridge snorted with laughter. ‘Ain’t nobody gets away from Mr Strood.’
Her small, cloth world jerked for a moment. She wriggled, trying to get the right way round. There was a thud, like someone banging on a sturdy door, and then the sound of bolts being drawn. Lots of bolts.
‘It’s Bogeyman Skerridge,’ said Skerridge. ‘Gotta delivery.’
‘Righty-oh. In yer come then. Mind the traps.’
‘Ow!’ Something knobbly got Nin in the ribs. She tried to kick it.
‘Tha’s better. They’re usually strugglin’ more’n that. Mr Strood likes ’em alive.’ The guard sniggered. ‘All in one bit, is she? No bites taken out of ’er like ya did that ovver one? Gone down in ’istory that ’as.’
‘Pah,’ snorted Skerridge angrily. ‘The kid deserved it.’
Skerridge hefted the sack on to the other shoulder. Nin yelped. ‘Mind you, took a lot o’ self-control, this one. Caused me a lot o’ trouble.’
‘You did what?’ demanded Nin as they hurried down the corridor and up some stairs.
‘Quiet,’ snapped Skerridge. ‘It were ages ago and only a coupla bites, more or less. Now, lessee. Two steps left, three to the right …’ There was a loud twang. ‘… an’ tha’s the poison-tipped arrows gone. Then we got the whirlin’, jagged-edged cuttin’ fings. Better duck ’ere …’ (Some nasty swishing sounds.) ‘… quickly follered by the hidden crushin’ fings …’ (Some grinding noises.) ‘… are ya gettin’ all this?’
‘Best not go this way, is what you’re saying.’
‘Good-oh. Now we got the inner guards, so shut it. ‘Ullo, Stanley. Big spear ya got there.’
‘Nice t’ see ya, Skerridge.’
‘Floyd. Like the knobbly club!’
‘Fanks, mate.’
‘Sconce …’
‘OK! OK!’ muttered Nin. ‘I got the point.’
They hurried on. Nin was beginning to feel really sick. There was a pause and some shuffling about of the sack. Skerridge cleared his throat loudly.
‘Erm … before we go in … I was gonna say … Well, it’s been fun. Following yer across the Drift, not t’ mention the Widdern. Gettin’ yer outa scrapes. A bogeyman don’ get much variety in ’is workin’ day mostly, so I jus’ fort I’d let ya know.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nin grimly.
‘Don’ worry. ’e’ll pro’bly jus’ ask ya some questions and then frow ya to ’is Deff. It’ll be quick an’ it won’t ’urt as long as ya don’ try to fight. Got that?’
‘He’ll what?’
‘Frow ya to ’is Deff. Right, ’ere we go then.’
Nin didn’t have time to be puzzled before she heard him knock on a door and a voice said. ‘Come in.’
There was a shuffling sound and the swish of perfectly oiled hinges as the door swung open and Skerridge edged forward. A moment later, he tipped her out of the sack on to a thickly carpeted floor.
‘Ah, Skerridge,’ said a warm voice somewhere above her. ‘Got here at last, I see?’
“Ad a bitta trouble wiv this one, Mr Strood, sir, but ’ere she is.’
‘Hmm, still the champion, eh?’
‘Yessir!’
Nin scrabbled up from lying on her face with her mouth full of carpet, to sitting propped on her hands. She shook the hair out of her eyes and looked up. She blinked.
‘Well, now, what have we here,’ said the voice in a friendly tone. ‘What’s your name, little girl?’
Nin frowned. She wasn’t keen on the little girl part, but she could feel Skerridge’s eyes burning into her anxiously.
‘Ninevah Redstone,’ she said, then added, ‘sir,’ rather pointedly.
‘Hmm.’ Strood wagged a thin finger at her. ‘Are you the girl who made a Fabulous? Fascinating. You must tell me all about it.’
He gave her a twinkling smile. Nin shuffled back a little way on her behind until she bumped into Skerridge’s ankles and had to stop.
Strood chuckled. ‘Making a Fabulous AND giving my champion kid-catcher such a hard time! Goodness, you’ll be trying to get away from me next! That’s all for now, Bogeyman Skerridge. Off you go then.’
There was a swish and a thump. Nin felt the draught from the door as Skerridge left in a hurry. She was alone with Mr Strood.
Mr Strood’s sitting room was filled with rich dark hues. Wine-coloured silk lined the walls, the carpet was a deep plum and the huge, soft armchair was a purple so dark it was almost black. Even the ceiling had been painted to look like a sunset in shades of rose with only a touch of gold. She could see no windows at all and the light came from many lamps fixed to the walls and perched on the surfaces. Everything was spotless.
Strood dropped gracefully into the big armchair and waved a hand at a smaller one opposite. Nin got to her feet and fell into it. She was staring. She couldn’t help it. She had a horrible feeling that her mouth was hanging open.
‘I know, I know,’ Strood sighed wearily. ‘You can’t imagine how someone can have got so many scars and still be alive, right?’
Nin nodded. It was close enough. In fact she hadn’t got past the ‘how can anyone have so many scars?’ part.
Strood waved a hand that looked like a road map in hand shape.
‘What you have to understand,’ he said smoothly, ‘is that we are only talking about one mishap. If you can call being deliberately and cruelly thrown to the wolves a mishap, which I doubt.’
There was a timid knock on the door. It swung back on a small woman with glossy dark hair, wearing a brown dress with a white pinafore. She was carrying a tray laden with a plate of cakes and one of pastries, a tea cup and a teapot. Her neat fingers were tipped with pearly nails that were just short of claws. She carried the tray over to the carved oak table at Strood’s elbow and set it down, then bobbed a curtsey and dashed out of the door.
Humming to himself, Strood inspected the cakes and poured a cup of black tea from the pot. He sat back and took a sip.
‘Excellent! Now, where were we?’
‘Wolves,’ said Nin again.
‘Oh that,’ he shook his head. ‘No, no. Enough about me, tell me about yourself ?’
‘So that’s it really,’ finished Nin. ‘Though I don’t understand why just telling him to be alive makes him a Fabulous?’ She had made the story of Jik last as long as she could because she didn’t have a plan for getting away from Strood, so the longer she could put off being fed to his Death the better. Whatever that meant anyway.
Mr Strood steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful. ‘Land Magics – mudmen, sand cats and so on – are mindless things governed by set rules. With mudmen, when you wake them, you give them the one task that rules them. It gives them purpose, but means that they are just tools with no sense of themselves. They’ll last until their task is done and then go back to being earth.’
‘But I told Jik to be alive, which isn’t just a task that you can do, right? So that makes him … different.’
‘And if you have created something from the Land that will live until it dies, something with free will and a self, then you may just have made a Fabulous. See?’ Strood chuckled. ‘Now, tell me about how you got away from my chief bogeyman! That must’ve been quite a feat!’
He poured himself more tea while she talked. It obviously didn’t occur to him to offer Nin any, or to give her a cake from the pile on the tray, which he hadn’t bothered with at all. She finished the story with the part where her mother accidentally stood on Skerridge’s sack, trying to make it as funny as possible. It seemed to work because Strood laughed, but Nin got the feeling that the friendliness wasn’t real. At least not in any normal kind of way. She didn’t think it would stop him killing her whenever he felt like it.
‘And that’s when you ran into that young friend of yours, right? And where is he now?’
Nin opened her mouth, then shut it again. Although she was pretty sure Jonas would be with the Lockheart Sisters by now, Strood didn’t know about the sanctuary being in the grounds of the Ho
use.
She had an idea. ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed, ‘he’s not been well since I got him away from the Storm Hounds.’
Strood stared at her over the rim of his cup. He raised one eyebrow. The other didn’t seem to be moveable
‘You got him away from the Storm Hounds,’ he repeated.
Nin gave a nod and then waited patiently while he looked her over thoughtfully. He smiled. He had a nice set of teeth, considering the rest of him was such a mess.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can tell me that one too.’
On his way out Skerridge stopped at the big folly at the top of the hill, which had huge clumpy columns and a roof that looked like a wedding cake from a gothic nightmare.
He sat on a marble bench inside the pillars, clutching a feebly struggling squirrel that he had grabbed on his way. He was also clutching a sheet of paper that he had nicked from Secretary Scribbins’s desk on the way out. Skerridge had done the nicking part at superspeed so all Scribbins had felt was a warm draught that blew his neatly arranged papers around the room.
He put the paper on the bench next to him and smoothed it out. It was singed around the edges because he had been going so fast, but still usable. Skerridge frowned at it. He hadn’t done much writing in a while. Bogeymen had no need for it in the normal way of things. Around him the day crept on towards evening, bringing out the shadows that had been lingering under the tall evergreens. The harsh cries of the peacocks echoed over the garden and high above white doves flew in bright splashes across the sky.
Skerridge munched the squirrel absentmindedly as he thought about what to say. Then he reached for the pen and scowled. He had forgotten to nick a pen. Skerridge looked at the remains of the squirrel. There was just about enough over.
When he had done writing the note, he stuck it on to the sanctuary door with splinters of squirrel bone and went to find another kid.
