As I stare in bewilderment I remember something Beaky was telling us a couple of weeks ago about a farmer who was in the paper because one night a big hole, a sinkhole it was called, just appeared in one of his fields. Lamont had heard of sinkholes already, he said they happen sometimes when there’s been loads of rain, a bit like landslides. I peer into the abyss – this must be a sinkhole!
Then I notice something awful: in the sinkhole, all caught up in some tangly roots, just a few metres down, is something … blue.
I blink and rub my eyes. But I’m not imagining it. I can see it clearly: it’s Harby’s bandage.
‘Harby,’ I call desperately into the hole. ‘Harby, are you in there?’
No answer.
SINKHOLE
Harby!
I shuffle away from the edge of the sinkhole, piecing everything together in my mind: Harby was upset, he was crying, he probably wasn’t looking where he was running and the sinkhole was so hidden and …
I blink at Harby’s broken spear in my trembling hand; he must’ve flung his spear aside when he fell.
‘Harby!’ I call again, my voice just a shaky little bleat. ‘I’m going to come down there. I’m going to find you.’
As I get closer to the edge, little sods of earth and pebbles loosen and tumble down into the darkness. I hear them land with a distant splosh far far down. The sound reminds me of … I suddenly get my bearings, realising where this place is in my Mandel Forest.
‘Druid’s Well,’ I whisper. When we were little we used to drop pennies in here and make wishes – the splosh sounded just the same. But in my world it isn’t just a huge gaping deadly pit, they’ve built a little wall around it and covered the opening with a criss-cross metal grid. So that nobody falls in, I guess. Oh, Harby! I stare into the darkness.
‘Harby! I’m coming down!’
I take off Dad’s backpack and lay Harby’s spear on the ground next to it.
Above the singing treetops the early morning sky is pale apricot, streaked with gold; it shouldn’t be so beautiful. I take a big breath and try to listen to the birdsong through the pounding of my heart. A familiar sound rises up from the forest – the call of the bird that sounds like a baby crying.
I freeze.
‘Mothga?’ I say.
The rising sun flashes in hazy stripes through the trees. Am I imagining it? Wishful thinking …
I stare at Harby’s blue bandage in the sinkhole. I inch closer to the edge, calling his name softly.
The cry comes again. Unmistakeably human. I think of Dara in the hospital. His tiny screwed-up face. And I know what I should do. I know what Harby would want me to do. Harby cared more about finding his sister than about anything else at all. ‘Make safe!’ I whisper. I grab the spear and backpack and run around the sinkhole, down the hill towards Mothga’s cries.
Between the trees I can see the river twinkling in the early morning sun. A few steps further and I can see the Pinnacle, huge and grey and solid like it always is. The sight of it calms me, unchanged and unchanging. The cries have stopped. I stand on the ridge, hidden amongst the trees, and I stare downstream, then upstream again; I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye.
A man steps out from behind the Pinnacle.
I drop down into the bracken, my breath catching in my throat. The Shadow Man.
There’s that sound again, closer, so much closer, the sound of the baby crying. My heart pangs.
Cautiously I peek out of my hiding place.
The man is huge, dressed in animal skins, his beard long and dark. He’s standing waist-deep in the fast-flowing water. In his enormous hands, squirming and crying, is a tiny baby.
I clap my hand to my mouth. ‘Mothga,’ I breathe.
MOTHGA
I feel like I’m turned to stone; I can’t take my eyes off the man and the baby. Without warning, he throws back his head and roars, a long, wordless sound. The baby screams, tiny naked arms and legs jerking in the man’s grasp.
He can’t, he mustn’t see me but I’m frozen to the spot. The man has fallen silent and he’s scanning about him with a kind of fierce intensity, like he’s looking for something … or someone. I shuffle lower into the bracken, still watching.
He takes a couple of splashy strides and dumps the baby down on a flat dry boulder. He turns and wades through the river, right towards my hiding place. My heart thuds in my ears but I’m too scared to move and I don’t even know if he’s seen me. When he reaches the shallows, he stops abruptly, water streaming off his thighs. I hold my breath. Has he seen me? He looks back at the crying baby. I see his hunter’s eyes narrow, his hands clench into fists. I’m shaking. What’s he going to do? What’s he going to do?
And suddenly he’s shouting again, and I have to bite down on my knuckles to stop myself screaming. I see spit fly from his mouth. He falls to his knees right there in the river and he shouts and he hits the water and hits the water and hits the water with his huge fists. Splashes leap around him, sparkling in the sunlight, mixing with drops of blood from where his hands are getting cut on the hidden rocks. But he doesn’t seem to notice. On the boulder the baby wails and wails, pink legs kicking in the air. Mothga!
I want to jump up and scream and run. I remember the thonk of the spear, the heavy thud of running feet, the grunt as he pulled the spear out of the tree. Was he trying to kill me? I think of finding Harby yesterday, almost dead in the river, the gash on his head. What if it wasn’t an accident? What if this man tried to kill Harby and kidnapped the baby? What if that was what Harby didn’t want to remember? I drop down, pressing my face into the scratchy bracken, eyes squeezed closed in terror. If only we could wish things away just by not thinking about them.
Across the river, the poor little baby cries and cries. I clap my hands over my ears. Oh, Mothga. Mothga.
Suddenly the yelling stops. I take my hands off my ears and cautiously peep up. The man is on his feet again, chest heaving, staring over at the baby. He wades noisily towards her, his powerful legs moving effortlessly through the water. The baby cries. My blood turns to ice. What’s he going to do?
He reaches the baby. He slides something out of a pouch at his belt. At first I can’t make out what it is. Then I can see it and I gasp. It looks like a kind of knife, made of sharpened stone, like Harby’s spearhead. The man stands over the baby. The baby wails.
With a swift movement, the man lifts the knife high above his head. I see the streaks of blood mixed with water, running down his arm. The baby’s screams pierce my ears.
‘No!’ I whisper. ‘No! Please, not the baby!’
I open my mouth to yell, to scream for him to stop, but terror plugs my throat and no words come. The baby howls harder still. Above Mothga the man holds the knife, his hand shaking. I can’t bear to watch.
Then, as if he’s had a change of heart, he bends over and plunges his knife into the river. He wipes it on his skins and shoves it back in his belt pouch. I breathe out, slowly, quietly, nearly melting with relief.
Mothga’s cries ease to a bleat, as if realising the danger has passed. But my eyes don’t leave the knifeman, not for a second. I watch him as he scans the river once more, then grabs the baby, who wails in protest again, and wades across the water towards the Pinnacle. For the first time I notice what looks like a wooden canoe bobbing about in the water; it’s tethered with rope to a kind of finger-shaped rock. The man lowers the crying baby into the little boat and out of sight. He stands over the baby in the canoe for a few seconds, staring down, fury-faced, hands on hips.
Then the man strides off, upstream towards Deadman’s Cave. I watch him until the trees get in the way and I can’t see him any more. As my breathing steadies, I notice the pain in my legs, all cramped from squatting. I stand up carefully, jiggling them to get the blood flowing.
Eyes alert, I lower myself over the ridge and creep towards the stepping stones. Hiding in the reeds where I found Harby’s spear, I look over at the wooden canoe; I can’t see
Mothga but above the rushing of the water, I can just hear her cries.
I don’t know what to do. I think of the man, how he roared and beat the river with his fists; how his hand shook as he held the knife above baby Mothga, the blood running down his arm. My body trembles and I start to shiver. He was going to kill that baby, I’m sure of it.
And Harby? I think of the deep dark sinkhole and I stifle a sob. The realisation hits me like a thrown stone: Harby’s gone.
But I can’t just walk away and leave the baby. What do I do? What do I do?
I picture Harby here on this very beach, in the moonlight just a few hours ago; the look on his face when he heard the baby crying; the way he rushed towards the sound; no thought of anything else.
‘Mothga,’ I whisper to myself.
Harby had said that word over and over and over; he even said it in his sleep when I pulled him from the river when he was so poorly, as if Mothga mattered to him more than anything. All Harby wanted was to find Mothga, make safe. But now he’s gone. I swallow another sob.
I take a deep shuddery breath. My hand tightens on Harby’s broken spear; I know what I have to do.
I move shadow-soft and swift, through the reeds. I look upstream, towards the cave. As far as I can see there’s no sign of the man. But I need to be quick; he could come back at any time.
The stepping stones are half underwater now but it’s still the shallowest place to cross. Keeping low, I step on to the first stone and my trainer fills up with water. The river’s freezing after yesterday’s rain. A fish flickers silver on the riverbed. The current pushes steadily on my calves.
I reach the Pinnacle and step out of the water on to its lower ridge. The sun is properly up now and the reflections on the river dazzle my eyes. I shield them with my hand and squint upstream.
Then I see the man. He’s standing in the river just beyond the cave, around where, in my world, the bridge would be. Slowly, silently, I slip behind the Pinnacle. Heart racing, I press my back into the cold rock. Did he see me?
Carefully I peep out. Now he’s bent over a flat rock in the shallows. He’s got a fish on the rock and he’s gutting it, scooping out its innards and flicking them into the water with his knife.
I edge around the back of the Pinnacle towards the wooden canoe where Mothga lies. There’s nothing to hide me when I come out from behind the Pinnacle. If the man looks up he’ll see me for sure. My heart pounds.
I need to make myself invisible. Slowly, slowly, keeping low as I can, I creep over until I’m level with the boat. I peer upriver at the man: he must have more than one fish because he’s still busy, scooping and flicking.
I peep over the rim of the boat. Mothga! Her shrill cries go right through me like a siren. I try to breathe quietly, not to frighten her. She’s so tiny, a newborn, like Dara. But she’s a hundred times louder; her arms and legs are jerking with crying. I raise my head carefully to check the knifeman; his back’s still turned but I’ve got to be quick.
Tucking the spear into my belt hook, I reach down and pick her up. Crouched behind the canoe I cradle her in my arms, how I wish I’d held Dara. ‘Mothga,’ I whisper, and she stops crying. She looks up into my face with dark dark eyes, like Harby’s, like Dara’s, like mine. She moves her lips as though she’s taking little sucks of milk from the air.
I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.
Holding Mothga close, I stand. Just as the knifeman looks up from his gutting. His eyes meet mine. He roars, dropping the fish, and charges through the water towards me.
I clutch Mothga to my chest, scramble across the stepping stones and charge up the beach.
GLADE
I leap up the bank into the cover of the forest. I’ve got a good lead but the knifeman’s powerful and fast, and I’m carrying a baby. I crash through the undergrowth, stumbling, tripping over the brambles but staying on my feet. The knifeman bellows and I know he can’t be far behind me. I start to scramble up towards the Spirit Stone but it’s too steep with a baby in my arms. I veer right, round the side of the hill, where the slope is gentler and the undergrowth less thick. Behind me I hear the knifeman thrashing through the trees.
Breathing hard, I dart beneath a low branch, leap over a rock and burst through a clump of ferns on to a sort of path, where the undergrowth is flattened. I race along the half-made path, my arms burning with the effort of holding Mothga to my chest. But she doesn’t seem at all bothered by my running; she’s not even crying.
I run into a patch of sunlight; a little glade. And even though I know the knifeman’s catching up, I have to stop, just for a second, catch my breath. I step back into the shadow of the trees. Standing still for a moment, heart thundering in my chest, I strain my ears to listen. And I can’t quite believe it but the sound of running feet seems to be further off, like it’s going away from me. As I listen, the noise fades and fades. I must have lost him by the Spirit Stone.
‘I think he’s gone the wrong way,’ I whisper to Mothga.
Cradling the baby in my arms, I step into the glade. The warmth of the sun on my damp shoulders feels so lovely. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sunlight. A warm breeze passes over my skin, soft as a kiss. Above me leaves flicker and the gentle hum of small creatures makes a yellow sound, like summer. I look down at baby Mothga, still wrapped in the soft animal skin. She’s fast asleep. I bring her up to my face and I feel her little breaths, in and out, cool then warm on my cheek. I kiss her soft fuzz of hair. My own breath steadies; my own heart calms.
I stroke Mothga’s perfect little fingers. Her tiny hand stretches, finds my own finger and closes around it, tight like a ring. My eyes prickle; I wonder if Dara would’ve held on to my finger like this. If I’d let him. If I’d held him. I close my eyes and rock the baby gently in my arms, letting myself imagine that this is Dara. A warm wave passes through me, soft and golden as morning sunshine. I don’t know how long I stand there for, holding Mothga, remembering my brother who I barely even met, but who I already love so much. Mothga wakes. Her perfectly round eyes look trustingly into mine and I feel awful because I realise that Harby loved his sister too and he is gone.
I should’ve helped Harby. I should’ve understood. He helped me be brave enough to stand my ground and face all the terrors of this wild place. Mothga squirms in my arms. I remember the little girl in the hospital with the balloon I wanted to pop and suddenly I feel that fizzing heat in my head again, like I felt I would pop too. Maybe if I’d met Harby before Dara was born, I would’ve been different; maybe I’d have been able to be braver, maybe I wouldn’t have run away.
‘You shouldn’t have run away either, Harby,’ I whisper, gazing into the squawking, chirping greenness and wishing I’d helped him, wishing I’d helped my friend to face whatever it was he was so afraid of. I hang my head.
‘Make safe,’ I breathe. Isn’t that what Harby wanted more than anything? To make Mothga safe? I feel my shoulders slump with worry. But how can I make this tiny baby safe? I’m only twelve. I don’t know how to take care of a baby, not even at home, let alone in the Stone Age.
A cloud passes overhead and the brightness dims. One thing’s for certain: we won’t be safe here for long. Not with that wild man trying to hunt us down. I’ve got to think, got to decide what to do.
I wipe my eyes and look around properly. The glade has been formed by a fallen tree. It’s a big willow and it looks freshly toppled because it still has its leaves and its tangled roots are dark with damp earth. I walk over to the tree. It’s split right through its middle; the split is blackened and smells of woodsmoke. It must have been struck by lightning in the storm. I lay my hand on the tree’s smooth bark and turn my face up to the sun. Mothga wriggles and mewls in my other arm. I look down at the hollow left in the earth where the tree roots once were; it’s not a deep dark abyss like the sinkhole, more of a shallow crater.
My heart skips a beat.
There’s a woman lying asleep in the crater, a woman dressed in anima
l skins. She is beautiful. Long, dark hair fans out around her head like a halo. Her face is white and she has the tiniest smile on her pale lips. Her hands are clasped together loosely just below her waist. She’s wearing a necklace and some string bracelets like Harby’s, but they go all the way up her arms. By her right side is a spear, the wood so pale it’s almost white. Around the rim of her hollow bed are quartzes, white and pink and grey, and beneath her, her bed is made of petals and leaves and the softest feathers. The woman looks so peaceful as she sleeps there.
Mothga squirms in my arms and my heart lifts. Maybe the lady will help us.
I hear a crack behind me. Before I can even turn round someone grabs my hair. A rough hand clamps over my mouth. I bite down. Hard.
‘AAAAAARGH!’ the knifeman yells, and loosens his grip.
I wriggle free and dart out of his reach and face him. In my arms Mothga wakes up and starts to wail. The man walks slowly towards us, reaching for his stone knife. I glance down at Mothga, then back at the knifeman. I whimper, my breath coming in short bursts. My eyes dart left and right but there’s nowhere for us to go.
Desperately, I reach for Harby’s broken spear, trying to disentangle it from my belt hook. Mothga screams, flailing her limbs about, and I almost drop her. My spear is stuck. I back away from the knifeman towards the hollow, still tugging to free the spear.
‘Sssshh, Mothga, don’t cry,’ I plead, holding her close. ‘Please don’t cry.’
I’ve backed right to the edge of the hollow now and the knifeman’s almost upon us. Quickly, I step around the hollow, putting it between me and the knifeman. I glance down at the woman. Somehow, in all the chaos, she’s still asleep. Then, with a sickening lurch, I realise.
She’s not asleep; she’s dead.
KNIFEMAN
At the edge of the crater the knifeman stops. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see a dead woman lying in a hollow beneath a fallen tree.
The Wild Way Home Page 11
