“You proved a boy can fight with nothing but a billhook. Today the hand, tomorrow the head!” Moray said, clenching his fist into a knot. His eyes sparkled for the first time since they began talking.
“Now we have the most important weapon of all: you! Do you hear that?” he asked, jerking his head towards the doorway. From beyond it came a loud hum of voices. Moray stood up and threw open the door. The entire walkway was filling with people, craning their necks to catch a glimpse inside – a glimpse of Fenn Demari. Word had got out, Moray had already made sure of that. He smiled and gently shut the door again.
“You’ve already started the revolution. Our people want to fight!”
“But you said most of your men have been imprisoned on the Hellhulks?”
Moray nodded. “So in the Hellhulks we have a ready-made army! We need to get word to them that the last Demari is alive. Give them hope. Give them reason to fight the Terras, not each other for the last scrap of bread. They have been waiting for a figurehead. You are the one they’ll fight for.”
Mattie gently teased the worst of the knots out of Fenn’s hair and began to bathe it with the fleabane. Tikki twitched his nose suspiciously at the change in Fenn’s scent.
“I’ve seen how the Terras live. They’re sick of the Sweeps, sick of their lives, sick of Chilstone too,” Fenn murmured thoughtfully, tilting his head for Mattie to finish washing his hair.
Moray nodded. “Chilstone will be on the Warspite, being patched up by his sawbones. This is our chance!”
“But no one can get aboard the Warspite without being seen.” Rivulets of cold water ran down Fenn’s neck, making him shiver.
Moray leant in closer, his eyes shimmering with hatred.
“We don’t need to get aboard,” he said. “We’ve been capturing explosives transported from the Fearzeros to the mines. They’re packed in a trawler. We’re ready to sink the Warspite and free the Hellhulks. Then we’ll have enough of our men to fight back. And someone to fight for!”
Fenn felt uneasy, remembering the young Terra at the Sweep. He had been cruel and ignorant, but he was young. Surely young enough to change? Mattie gently began braiding his hair into tight plaits, fixing them with stitches using a hawthorn needle threaded with a length of horsehair.
“The means justify the end, Fenn,” Moray said, sensing his reluctance. His eyes shimmered with dark bright light as he stared at Fenn. “Agreed?”
Fenn nodded uncertainly, but something twisted in his stomach – a sudden terrible pang of loneliness he’d managed to keep at bay for the past couple of days. He reached up and touched Amber’s clover earring, checking it was still in his pocket; he would have given anything to see his friends again, to talk to them. Mattie finished stitching Fenn’s hair into the braids and packed away her comb and needle in the pail, then she nodded goodbye to Moray and bobbed Fenn a second curtsey.
“Thank you,” Fenn said, reaching up to touch his head for the first time. It felt strange. Moray took a disc of polished brass off a hook on the wall and Fenn peered at his distorted reflection. His hair had been plaited and stitched into coils that wrapped over his head in twirling patterns.
“Now you look like a true Sargasson,” Moray smiled. “And even more like your mother.” He pulled the necklace out from his pocket and looped it over Fenn’s head. “Would you like to see where she lived?” he asked, helping Fenn into a warm muntjac jacket. Fenn nodded as Tikki slipped up again around his shoulders, nuzzling down into the fur.
“Ready?”
Moray opened the door to a chorus of cheers.
10
The evening sunlight glinted off the trees in slanting gilded spurs, making the whole forest shimmer and sparkle. Moray surged ahead, parting a way through the crowds along the walkway, but the bridges still creaked under the weight of people hurrying to see the last Demari. Tides of excited whispers followed in Fenn’s wake.
“Where is it?” Fenn asked eagerly as he hurried after Moray down a bridge towards a mass of dark firs in the distance. His heart was galloping. It had never occurred to him he might one day know something about his parents; Halflin had always been so closed off about them.
“When Maya came to us, most of these trees weren’t much more than saplings,” Moray answered. “In those days we still lived in the old forest. There are still shipwrecks stuck in the trees from the Great Rising. Most are uninhabited now, but in the old days the wrecks were our homes.”
The sun loosened snow on the highest boughs and piles of it cascaded down, landing on the walkway in white mounds like wet washing. Undeterred, the crowds did not shift. Fenn was who they’d come to see, they didn’t mind getting wet. As they neared the trees, the crowds thickened and the murmuring rose up as people began calling out that the Demari boy had arrived.
“Is he wearing the key?” Fenn heard a man ask, his son riding on his shoulders for a better view.
“I can’t see. What’s that thing around his neck?” the boy replied.
“An otter?”
“That’s never an otter – too small,” a woman corrected, poking her head through a gap between two shoulders. Two blushing girls giggled and batted their eyelashes at him as he walked through the crowd.
“They say he attacked a band of Terras!” another woman whispered awestruck as Fenn passed by.
Her friend shook her head sceptically. “But he’s just a bairn!”
“Well, you can see the scars!” the first said stoutly.
“I heard he cut Chilstone’s hand off!”
“Wouldn’t that kill him?”
“That can’t be true; he’s not even on the marsh … is he?” a woman asked, her voice trembling as she tightened her grip on her child’s hand.
Fenn wished he could stop and tell them what really happened; that he got the scars from a thorn whipping back in his face, that he hadn’t planned to attack Chilstone, that it was a mongoose called Tikki and that Tikki had played a big part in things. But it seemed impossible. Everyone was staring at him like he was a great hero returning from battle.
Someone screamed his name and a couple of “Long live the Demaris!” rang out and suddenly “Long live Fenn!” rippled through the crowds like a wave. A young woman even pushed towards Fenn carrying a baby in her arms. She held the kicking infant up.
“A kiss, please? For luck!” she said, her face glowing with happiness. The baby gurgled with glee as Tikki sniffed his milky breath and Fenn kissed him on the forehead. Instantly the whispered murmurs crescendoed into wild cheers.
Fenn started to feel light-headed, as if he were no longer walking but floating towards the trees. He started to wave back at the crowds, enjoying himself. He shook a few hands. Chilstone and the Terras faded like an old, half-forgotten nightmare; something at the back of his mind rather than something he was ever going to have to face again. His waves unleashed joy from the crowds; there were whoops and shouts, and hands stretched out to touch him and slap him on the back.
It was then he heard the old voice in his ear. At first he tried to block it out. He didn’t want to hear it at this very instant, not when everyone was cheering and admiring him. He was having fun for the first time since the night he’d played Truth or Dare with his friends. He waved again, shutting the voice out. But the voice persisted, like an echo had drifted all the way from East Point, needling its way through the trees and crowds, just to single him out and pierce his happiness.
It were pride before fall. That’s what Halflin said once, admitting his stupidity in thinking he could outsail a storm and nearly scuppering his boat. A chill ran down Fenn’s spine: he realised he still had his storm to sail through. He stowed his hands deep in his pockets out of harm’s way and looked down resolutely.
They had reached the inside perimeter of the old forest, where new trees pushed through the wizened old trunks. Moray steered him along the walkway and under an arch of twisting branches. On the other side, in the old forest, Fenn immediately spotted a large barge lodged
between the crowns of two huge oaks, slanting at a precarious angle. A circle of younger oaks had grown up around the old trees, so their branches had twisted into and around the boat’s hull, hugging the bow tight. The barge had lodged there years before and Moray’s father had adapted it to be inhabited, cutting a deeper rectangle around the deck hatch and hanging a door. The boat was high up and the crooked staircase lashed to the trunk made two Zs before it reached the entrance.
“This is where she lived,” Moray said, looking up at the topsy-turvy boat. He began to climb the crooked stairs. Fenn swallowed hard. He never thought he’d find out anything about his parents because Halflin had always been so reluctant to talk about them; and now here he was, about to see where his mother had grown up. He had just gripped the rail to follow, when a commotion further along the walkway made him stop and turn round. The crowds turned to see as well, and a few voices were raised as someone demanded to be let through.
Fenn peered above their heads to find out what was happening. In the dark shadows he spied a glimpse of silver, like the flash of a fin – the luminous strip on the jackets the Terras sometimes wore. Someone was pushing their way through the crowds. Fenn glimpsed a tuft of bright red hair and his heart jolted like it had missed its footing.
“Fenn!”
It was Amber, storming through the crowds towards him, shoving people out of the way, not caring who she elbowed in her haste to get to Fenn. Behind her he could see Fathom waving and grinning, and further back, Gulper jumping up and down wildly as he tried to see above the crowds. Fenn charged forward to meet them, thrusting through the jumble of bodies barring his way. He heard Moray shout something behind him as he skidded back down the stairs to catch up, but that was just noise to Fenn. All he cared about was reaching his friends, giddy with delight. “Sorrys” were spilling out of his mouth as he barged through the crowds, stamping on toes, but he didn’t slow down until suddenly he was there. They were there. He was with his friends.
Then it was a mash of hugs and Amber’s “Oh my Gods!” and Tikki slid off his neck into Comfort’s arms as she clung to Fenn’s legs, like a limpet that could never be loosened by the tide. And all he wanted to say was, I missed you! but the words kept getting lost, so each time he opened his mouth, he simply shut it again.
“You know them?” Moray asked incredulously when he caught up. “This lot got picked up the day before you came!”
“These are…” Fenn at last managed to blurt, but joy choked up his throat. He began laughing and shaking his head in disbelief. He swallowed hard and tried again. “These are my friends!”
Gulper now had him in a bear hug that was crushing all the air out of him.
“Friends,” Gulper said, practically snuffling like a pig that’s found truffles as he basked in the reflected glory. “My good friend!” he whispered, tears in his eyes too. He only released Fenn because Amber had barged in. She grabbed his shoulders and yanked him round to face her. Then, half-shaking, half-squeezing him, she gabbled a hundred questions at him, punctuated with tellings-off.
“Fathom told us who you really are! Why didn’t you ever say? Didn’t you trust us? How did you end up here? Someone said Chilstone caught you! How did you escape?” She paused and drew just enough breath to fuel the next barrage of questions. “Why didn’t you say what you were going to do? We could have helped! It was so dangerous! What do you think you were doing?” She prodded Fathom sharply in the shoulder. “That’s all everyone is talking about, isn’t it Fathom?” she said, without waiting for him to answer. “That you lit your grandad’s Punchlock! That was so stupid! Incredibly stupid! You could have… You could have got yourself killed! You—”
She came to an abrupt halt, like something had stuck in her throat and she had such a look in her eyes, such a wounded look, that Fenn couldn’t meet her gaze.
“I do trust you…” he at last managed, but before he could say more, Moray had raised his arms and two Sargasson guards ran up to keep the crowds in check.
“Inside,” Moray ordered, steering the children towards the barge. He was afraid that Fenn might be overheard saying Chilstone was on the marsh; he didn’t want a panic. The children climbed up the stairs.
“This was where Maya used to live,” he explained as he threw open the door.
“Your mum?!” interrupted Amber, her eyebrows travelling even higher up her forehead. “Your mum lived here? I never knew she was Sargasson! So that’s something else…”
“I didn’t know either – and she wasn’t Sargasson … well, not exactly,” said Fenn, defending himself from further accusations of secrecy. “Let’s just get inside. We can talk there.”
The sun had now set and it was too dark to see much inside, other than that they were in a small, boxy room that sloped acutely to one side. Moray lit the lamp on the wall and as the flame bulged, the room showed its secrets.
It had been painted a shade of blue-green, the colour of the sea, and across the ceiling and walls were hundreds of multicoloured fish, swimming between forests of seaweed that had been intricately sketched around every porthole. Against the far wall was a ladder made from thin branches lashed together with strips of leather. It led through a hole cut into what had once been a dividing wall, but because of the boat’s angle, was now a ceiling. In the middle of the room was a table cut from a round of wood, with tree stumps for stools around it, and a small, green enamel stove.
“This was all your mother’s work,” Moray explained as he knelt and lit the kindling stacked in the stove. Firelight flickered on the walls, so the seaweed and fish seemed to dance. Amber stared entranced, tracing her fingers over the shimmering fish and turquoise shells, temporarily forgetting her torrent of questions.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
Fenn sat down heavily.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Moray said softly as the children blinked at their surroundings. He looked gently at Fenn. “And you’ve been through a lot – more than most grown men. You need to rest.”
He turned to the others.
“Don’t worry about your things. I’ll see you get your stuff brought over,” he explained as he laid a log on the crackling fire. “There’s room for you all here.” He nodded his head towards the ladder as he stood and dusted down his hands. Then he laid his hand on Fenn’s shoulder for a few seconds before opening the door again.
“You’ll look after him,” he said solemnly to Fathom, who had found a blanket and was already draping it over Fenn’s shoulders, then he stepped out into the dusk. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, when you’ve rested.”
As soon as the door swung shut, Amber sat down by Fenn’s side. Comfort lay her head on Amber’s shoulder and Amber put her arm around her. She gently tickled Tikki, who padded around in her lap in many small circles until he found the right spot, and then curled into a ball, with his tail over his face for a bit of peace and quiet. For a few moments, the children simply sat in silence, letting the tranquillity of Maya’s paintings wrap around them. Gulper was the first to speak.
“Well, let’s see it then!” he demanded, slapping his hand on the table and nodding at the hint of gold sparkling around Fenn’s neck. Fenn shuffled off his dazed state, unhooked the chain and handed it over.
“Oh. I thought it’d be bigger!” Gulper mumbled, frowning and clearly dissatisfied as he passed it to Fathom to inspect.
“Well, very sorry to disappoint you,” Fenn laughed, as Amber gave Gulper a cuff around the head before putting out her hand to see the key too. She dangled it between her fingers while Comfort tapped the key to make it spin.
“It’s so lovely. Do you know who made it?” she asked. Fenn shrugged as he put it back on. “I’d love to have something of my mum’s,” she said wistfully, watching him. The truth was, Fenn didn’t know quite what he felt for someone he never knew; even the word “Mum” was just a word to him. He’d never used the word as a name; there was never an actual person. But it was different for Amber.
&nb
sp; She’d never even known her dad, but remembered enough of her mother to also know how much she must have forgotten. It was like she had done a jigsaw puzzle years before and still had a few dog-eared pieces from it, but with no idea where they belonged. Sometimes the memories she clung to only showed her how much she’d lost, and hurt more. Fenn clicked the catch of the chain back, noticing how her face hollowed; that always happened when she bit the inside of her cheeks to stop herself crying. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze, and she almost flinched, as if she wanted to be alone with her sorrow.
“You were meant to be in West Isle!” he said, changing the subject. Amber swallowed back her tears and tried to smile.
“We saw the Warspite—”
“Saw it? Nearly mowed us down!” Gulper interrupted. “The Madeleine tipped so bad she started takin’ water. But we hobbled back to shore, thanks to Fathom.” Fathom smiled at the compliment. “We nearly died!” Gulper’s eyes bulged out at their bad luck.
“We got picked up by the Sargassons. They were out looking for whoever lit the Punchlock,” Fathom continued.
At this, Amber gave Fenn a pointed look as she cut in. “We knew it was you, but we didn’t say anything.”
“We didn’t know if we could trust them,” Fathom explained.
“An’ thought we’d be flyin’ up your ointment if we said who you were. So we kept schtum,” Gulper said. “Anyway, what about you?!”
Fenn was halfway through telling them about his race across the marsh and everything Moray had told him, when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. A Sargasson boy was waiting outside. He came in, carrying two huge tiffin boxes in a yoke over his neck. He unstacked the pots and put them on the table. The whole time he was there, he gawped wide-eyed at Fenn, a dopey smile on his lips. He was so spellbound he kept knocking over plates and he walked straight into the wall instead of the door on his way out.
“You’re going to be treated like a king here. The last Demari!” Amber remarked as she lifted the lid of the first tiffin. “You can see why people pretend to be you,” she said.
Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn Page 8
