A head unexpectedly poked out, making them jump; a woman, practically bald, save for some scraggy tassels of hair. She was gnome-like, with a head that looked too heavy for the thin stalk of her neck. She wore a dark green dress that might have once been velvet, although most of the nap had rubbed away.
“Looking for someone or someone looking for you?” she trilled as she stretched her neck out further. She smiled, her mouth wet-lipped and red as a worm. “I’m Scratch; face-maker, make-a-face, faker-maker, make-a-fake,” she sang. “Sisters look for brothers, dogs look for fleas, youngs look for olds, trees look for leaves.”
The rest of Scratch’s body followed her head as she crept out along the branch. She was long-legged and long-armed, and she dangled upside down for a moment beneath her treehouse like a crane-fly. Her hair was stringy and hung down as she swung. After a few moments she let out a bored sigh, then hopped back into her hut and peeped out at the children, her frail knees drawn up under her chin.
“Looking’s nothing, drawing’s something,” she chirruped.
“How can I find my sister?” asked Fathom. “There are thousands of them!”
“Do I look like a detective?” Scratch snapped with a withering glare. She sniffed. “Look yourself! Stay a day, stay a week. Stay as long as you want to seek.”
She laughed childishly and folded up her spindly arms, while she waited for them to answer. Her eyes gleamed brightly in the gloom and she rocked back on her heels, looking down quizzically, like a blackbird eyeing up a worm.
“If you’ll be patron, I’ll take paying,” she chirped, sliding down the side of the screen to see them better. She fell the last few feet, and landed with a bump on the soft moss beneath her tree.
Scratch stood up and brushed herself down, fastidiously plucking off leaves that had caught on her dress; she was clearly very vain. Then, delicately picking up the hem between her thumb and finger so her dress didn’t scrape in the dirt, she took a dainty step towards the children, sashaying through the gloom.
When she reached them she clicked her fingers to show she wanted to see some food for her efforts. Her fingertips were blackened by the charcoal she used, and blistered from scratching on the pieces of tin. She suddenly shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing herself warm.
“The evening’s cold or I am old,” she whispered, with sudden deep melancholy, as if she’d only just realised how ancient she was. She grabbed handfuls of dry leaves banked against a tree trunk, rolled them into balls and stuffed them beneath her dress – the same trick Halflin had taught Fenn one bone-snapping cold winter. The more she packed in, the more like a pot-bellied spider she looked. When she’d finished, tufts of moss sprouted at her neck like a ruff.
“How much?” asked Amber. Scratch sucked her teeth and gazed at her with her bright enquiring eyes and as her expression softened, a gentle smile expanded across her face.
“On the house for you, sweet cheeks,” she said, before suddenly giving Amber’s face an unexpected sharp slap. “But don’t get all weepy on me now! I can’t abide boo-hoo-hoos!”
Amber reeled, too shocked to react, and just looked at Fathom and Fenn in bewilderment. Scratch delved into the pocket of her apron, an ancient old shirt, stiff with paint, and pulled out a piece of plastic cut into a disc.
All the tools of her trade came from here: several styluses, made of bent nails or flint, clay pots of charcoal and red alder root; a stiff brush to work in the colours and finally a pot of raw egg white she used to glaze and fix the paint. The pads of her fingertips were her palette, stained with each pigment. Her little finger on her right hand was bright red from alder root for lips, on her left hand, blue from woad, to colour in eyes. Amber sat down next to her and began to describe her mother so that Scratch could make her portrait.
As Fenn listened, he realised that Scratch wasn’t selling anything other than hope. She could just about draw a vague image to support the recollections of people who had long forgotten the faces of those still breaking their hearts. That was her skill. Of all the thousands of portraits fluttering in the wind that evening, none was fluttering so violently as the anticipation in Amber’s heart. Fenn looked over Amber’s shoulder at the little disc she nursed in her hand, like a fledging fallen from its nest.
“Looks just like her,” Amber whispered as she gazed at the image – the dark eyebrows, a full mouth, the bright green eyes. On the back Scratch had gouged, Mum. Looking for you. Amber. 14.
“This is a good spot,” Scratch told her, taking the disc back to clip up on the batch that had been newly hung. Like a freshly planted part of a cemetery, the colours on these portraits were bright. “You’ll never miss it here.”
Scratch stowed her painting tools back in her apron pocket, hunching over herself secretively as if Fenn and Fathom were thieves. Fenn returned to examining the portraits. Most were faded, becoming white shards of plastic as their pigments floated off in the forest mists. Just like the Seaborns, Fenn thought: a people disappearing, forgotten, drifting away. He thought of Moray’s words to him the day before. You are our only hope. Our last hope, you could bring the tribes together. It was down to him.
Just then a breeze slithered through the trees, making the flame of Fathom’s lamp stutter and shiver, then go out. As he relit it, Fenn felt a sudden chill creep under his skin. Scratch seemed to sense it too and scurried back up to her treehouse.
“Lost son, the hidden one,” she sang as she climbed. “One, two, I know it’s you!” Breathlessly she scrambled into the safety of her hut. From inside, Fenn could still hear her nervously singing her song in a weepy whisper.
“Three, four, death’s at your door!”
Through a crack in the hut’s slats, he could just see Scratch’s eyes peeping out fearfully as she scanned the trees outside.
“What do you mean?” he called up. Scratch leant out cautiously and peered out. She pointed a single trembling finger towards the distant marsh.
“Five, six, down on sticks!” Her voice was ragged as if she was very scared. “Seven, eight, they’re at the gate! They’re at the gate!” She let out a little squeak of fear, then hopped back inside her shack, like a cuckoo in a clock, and slammed the door shut.
“Mad as a box of frogs,” Fathom murmured, shaking his head and laughing to himself. But Fenn still stared after her and shuddered.
“She’s warning us. I just don’t know what about.”
12
Dusk fell further on the dunes and Fathom’s lantern only pooled enough light to see a few feet ahead. Walking back was even slower than before. They were about to clamber over a rotten elm, blocking their path, when Amber stopped dead in her tracks.
“D’you hear that?” she asked. She tilted her head to listen beyond the sounds of the Grubbers and Toshers packing up for the night. “I thought I heard something.” Fenn strained to hear but couldn’t catch anything other than the sound of the tide sweeping in.
“Can’t you hear it?” Amber insisted. “It’s coming from over there,” she pointed through the trees, out towards the river.
Fenn shimmied up into the fallen elm’s to see. The wind whistled through it’s branches making the dead leaves rustle, but he still caught it: the sound of whinnying from far beyond the edge of the forest. He peered through the snags. He could just see the end of the causeway from here. The crossing had not yet been submerged by high tide, but waves were just beginning to break white against the hundreds of enormous tree trunks laid across to the far side of the water, invisible behind a solid bank of river mist. Suddenly out of the grey spray he caught sight of the source of the noise: a horse was thundering at breakneck speed along the causeway, headed for them.
“Who’s that?” Fathom asked, climbing up beside him. “Thought Sargassons were master horsemen – he’s riding like a maniac!”
Fenn stared through the fog. The rider seemed to be slumped over the horse’s neck.
“Something’s wrong!” he shouted, jumping down.
They all scrambled towards the river, skidding and leaping over the collapsing rubbish heaps towards the water’s edge. Faster than the others, Fenn was first on the causeway.
The horse suddenly stopped galloping, and started bucking instead. The rider still didn’t seem able to get her under control, although he was clinging on, gripping the saddle’s pommel. The horse was a little under sixty feet away from Fenn when she began whinnying miserably, as if she was in pain. Fenn put his arms up in the air, palms outwards like he’d once seen Halflin do to slow a wild horse that had been mauled by a wolf. That horse had galloped, bleeding and wild-eyed along the jetty to the Punchlock, rearing to jump in where it would have surely been drowned, but Halflin had stood his ground. This horse reared up on her hind legs in the same way, her eyes flickering in terror. She bucked again, more aggressively this time, as if determined to throw the rider off her back.
“Steady girl!” Fenn hushed. “Steady!”
He took a single solid pace towards her and reached his hands up higher, patting the air down. She bucked again, but this time Fenn realised the rider didn’t have her reins at all, and they were flapping loose. He snatched them, winding them around his bunched fist and pulling them taut. The leather was soaked through and the horse was also drenched. She shied again, more half-heartedly now and the rider slumped drunkenly to one side. His clothes were sopping wet too and his black hair had been unbraided and clung to his handsome face. It was Gerran.
“Whoa!” Fenn cried. He put his hand on the horse’s hot neck again. “Gerran?” he asked, bewildered.
Gerran wasn’t clinging to the saddle at all; his wrists had been strapped to the pommel and his feet were lashed into the stirrups to fix him to his mount. Fenn gently touched his shoulder and he slid sideways, water trickling from his mouth. He stared at Fenn with open but unseeing eyes. A crude yellow scythe had been painted across his face. A Sunkmark.
Amber screamed, over and over again, clapping her hands over her face in horror. Fathom dragged her away, holding her tight, while Fenn stared in dismay down the misty causeway.
“This is what Scratch was trying to say – they’re coming!”
The guards carried Gerran’s body back to Moray while the children ran on ahead. As soon as they got through the main gates, Fenn, Amber and Fathom raced back to Gulper and Comfort, but by the time they burst in, news of Gerran’s death had already reached them. Gulper was bundling Comfort up into her coat, his fingers trembling, and her bag was stuffed full with anything they could possibly need. He’d spent so long on the Shanties, fighting to live, that he seemed to have a nose for danger and had smelt it long before he knew exactly what the danger was.
“Is it true?” Gulper asked, his face pale and worn out with the twitches of old.
Fenn nodded grimly. “Stay here!” he ordered them, “I’m going to find Moray!”
His eye fell on Comfort, cuddling Tikki, shivering with fear, and his voice faded as he lost his nerve. Suddenly seeing little Comfort made him think it was ridiculous to think they could fight the Terras; they wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if Chilstone were killed, there were enough Terras on the marsh to crush the Sargassons for ever. If the Terras attacked tonight, they’d all be done for; there wasn’t time to set their plan in motion. Fenn cursed himself for bringing yet more trouble on the Sargassons.
Haven’t they suffered enough? Lundy had once said.
All for Fenn. It was always for him. The name Fenn Demari was a curse.
He sped down the walkway to the great sequoia. The guards were already climbing up into the trees to start banging on the iron drums to sound the alarm. Mothers called their children in and barred their doors. People ran by in panic. By the time Fenn reached the fortress, dozens of people were streaming towards it too, trying to find out if the rumours were true. Fenn squeezed past them, unable to answer their desperate questions. He scrambled up the last steps and went inside. The guards slammed the door shut after him.
Gerran had been laid on the same truckle bed Fenn had rested in after he’d collapsed from exhaustion. Moray knelt in the salt water pooling on the floor, tenderly stroking his brother’s wet hair, his shoulders shaking with silent grief and rage. At twenty-eight, Gerran was ten years younger than Moray, but now he looked like he hadn’t left his teens. Someone had closed his eyes so he looked as if he was just sleeping; death had cleared all signs of age and his face shone in the dark room. The yellow paint had been wiped away, all except a small smudge missed on his chin, as if buttercup-shine had settled there permanently.
Mattie, the woman who had stitched up Fenn, stood in the corner, her shoulders shuddering as she clutched her apron to her face to stifle her weeping. She had nursed Moray and his brother as children after their mother died. In her hand Fenn saw she carried a rag, stained yellow from the Sunkmark. Young guards stood mutely nearby, their eyes wide with fear and their mouths set grim with anger. They had been just five years old when Chilstone last visited the Sargassons, but old enough to remember.
“Drowned!” Moray whispered as Fenn stumbled through the room to him. “They drowned him!”
His shoulders shook with silent grief and rage. He staggered to his feet, staring at Fenn blackly, his pale face whiter than ever and crumpled with pain.
“Chilstone sent a message.” It was only then that Fenn’s eyes fell on the scrap of damp paper Moray clutched in his fist. “He wants me to hand you over,” Moray said, his voice cracking. “By midnight.”
Fenn gritted his teeth. What was it hideous old Nile had said? Be careful what you wish for. He was right after all: dreams of Resistance and revenge seemed to have brought only unhappiness. Fenn stared at poor Gerran. In the little time he’d known him, Gerran had shown him kindness. Now he was dead because of him. If Fenn hadn’t ended up on the Shanties the people there could have carried on living in peace – perhaps Chilstone would even have spared Halflin. Fenn had to put a stop to it all and do the right thing; no more running, no more hiding. He made up his mind; he would give himself up. Now that he thought of it, he wondered why he hadn’t done it earlier. He was what Chilstone wanted. He put his hand on Moray’s shoulder.
“I brought this on you,” Fenn whispered, his voice hoarse with guilt.
Moray shook his head.
“You’re wrong. The Terras would have come sooner or later. The forest is too valuable for them to ignore.”
“But if I give myself up, I could buy you more time,” Fenn said. He felt ready; he just had to be sure his friends would be OK. “But first I want to say goodbye to my friends. And promise me you’ll make sure they’re all right!” His voice rasped and tears stung in his eyes.
“Only you can do that,” Moray said stubbornly, shaking his head. “Chilstone stole our hopes once. Never again. I’ll never give the Demari family up. Maya was my friend, friends look after each other, and each other’s children. You have to get to safety.”
Fenn shook his head; there was no way he was leaving the Sargassons to fight alone.
“If I’m not handing myself in, then I’ll stay to fight!” he said. “I’m not running away!”
“It’s not the time to fight. We’re not ready!” Moray answered, his eyes blazing. “Without the prisoners on the Hellhulks there are too few of us.”
“At least give me one of your guns. Let me back on the marsh … I could kill him!” Fenn begged. His heart was set on revenge, not hiding. “Chilstone killed my grandad!”
“And my brother,” Moray said quietly. “Every single one of us has a reason to want Chilstone dead. The Seaborn that kills him, kills him for us all. But for now we’ll dig in – use the water against them. The Swampscrews are for marsh only. Nothing heavier than a horse can cross the causeway, and the river is too deep for the Swampscrews. Even if they get into the forest, we know it better than Terras.”
Moray clapped his hand on Fenn’s shoulder.
“Leave Chilstone to me. Your job is to get word to the other tribes to hel
p us. The Sargassons can’t stand alone, not again. That is the best thing you can do to help.”
“But how?” asked Fenn. “Where do I go?”
“Get across the Valence Channel to the Mainland. The Sargassons have friends in the islands off its western coast. Find them. Tell them the Sargassons of East Marsh are besieged and call on them to help. I’ve already sent word to the Hellhulks. Thousands of our people are there; if they can break free, they’ll fight too.” Moray opened a chest on the table and pulled out a map and a compass. “But first you have to get off the marsh.” He opened the map and pointed at the river that snaked through Sargasson territories. The map had the same landmarks as Halflin’s, but showed a multitude of new rivers. The rising water was forcing its way through the last of the marshlands.
“See here … a tributary runs through the forest before it rejoins the main river. We’ll give you and your friends boats. Travel downriver another mile to where the water narrows; soon after you’ll see an old oak with a lightning strike in its crown.”
At this Moray grabbed Fenn by the shoulders to make sure he’d taken it in.
“Remember; an oak with a lightning strike in its crown. You must get off the river there on the left bank! Terras from the Hellhulks regularly patrol that stretch of river. Scuttle the coracles. Go five miles south until you see a stone bridge on the right. Beyond that there’s a wreck, hiding a mooring place. There’s a ferryman called Lodka – a Landborn, but he’s a friend. Tell him I sent you – he’ll get you off East Marsh. After that, you and your friends are on your own.”
He nodded at the nearest guard who gripped Fenn’s arm. “Take him out by the eel bucks,” he said. As the guard stepped forward, Moray suddenly grabbed Fenn and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. “Keep yourself safe! You are the only Demari left. Our only hope,” he whispered in Fenn’s ear. “You are my family now. Go out; spread the word that the Sargassons are no longer hiding. Tell every Seaborn we fight for Fenn Demari.”
Fenn Halflin and the Seaborn Page 10
