Gideon the Cutpurse

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  Trout-tickling, as his grandfather had taught him, is difficult and requires endless patience, yet even as a small child he used to love to try – once set on something Peter was not one to give up easily. So now he lay on his stomach and slipped first his hand and then his whole arm into the freezing water. He made himself so still and quiet he became one with the flow of the stream, the stony bed and the rippling water. Eventually a plump, speckled trout drew near to his hand. Slowly and with the deftest of touches, Peter started to stroke its belly. After a few minutes he soothed the trout into a trance-like state. When he judged the moment was right Peter flung the fish onto the grassy bank. He picked it up and killed it in one clean blow as his grandfather had taught him, by knocking its head smartly on a rock. As he prepared to try his luck again the crack of a twig breaking made him wheel around. All his senses went on full alert. Was there someone else with him in the sun-dappled wood? Eventually he decided that it must have been an animal and his attention returned to the job at hand.

  Half an hour later Peter set off to find Kate, very pleased with himself and with the three slippery brown trout which he had wrapped in dock leaves and stuffed into his anorak pockets. He was tempted to wake her by howling like a wolf and grinned mischievously at the thought. Then he remembered how petrified she had seemed the previous night and thought the better of it.

  When he reached Kate she was still curled up in the same position, her hood pulled over her head and her knees tucked around the slim trunk of the young beech tree. Tendrils of red hair had escaped from her hood and were blowing gently in the breeze. Peter crouched down, trying not to make a sound, and tipped his head to one side so that he could see her face. She looked pale through her freckles and was frowning. It made him sad to see her look so anxious even while she was still asleep. He was on the point of touching her shoulder to wake her when something happened which he could not begin to understand. She appeared to be fading or dissolving into thin air. Peter stared at her, unable to believe what he was witnessing. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. There was no doubt about it, Kate was distinctly hazy. He made himself look all around him, at the ground strewn with yellowing leaves, at the ant marching towards his shoe, at the huge cobweb with a great fat spider waiting at its centre. Everything else was in sharp focus, yet Kate was like an image on a poorly tuned television, flickering and fuzzy. In fact, you could see the tree trunk she was huddled up against right through her body. Peter felt a dreadful sense of panic come over him. Was she going to disappear altogether? ‘Kate!’ Peter shouted. ‘Wake up!’

  At the sound of his voice she snapped instantly back into focus and it was a solid Kate who was on her feet in a second. ‘What’s wrong?’ she gasped. ‘Have the wolves come?’

  ‘No … no. It’s just that you looked … funny.’

  ‘You shouted at me like that because I looked funny! You’re worse than Sam! You really scared me. I thought we were about to be torn to pieces or something …’ Kate paused for breath; her fists were still clenched and her eyes burned into him. ‘What do you mean I looked funny?’

  There was nothing remotely flickery or fuzzy about her now and Peter began to doubt what he had seen. Could hunger make you imagine things? He decided to play the incident down.

  ‘I thought you were looking a bit blurred around the edges, that’s all,’ he said, failing to sound offhand. ‘It must have been a trick of the light.’

  Kate stared at him in disbelief. ‘A bit blurred round the edges!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you trying to wind me up? Because if you are, it’s not working.’

  Peter was so preoccupied he did not notice how near to crying Kate was. I must find out if she’s still solid, he told himself, and decided that the simplest course of action was to bump into her accidentally on purpose. Kate eyed him suspiciously as he circled around her before tripping himself up deliberately on a tree root and flooring Kate in the manner of a professional wrestler. Kate hit out at him and pushed him roughly off her. She shouted: ‘What do you think you’re doing, you idiot?’

  Large tears started to roll down Kate’s cheeks and dropped onto the back of her hands as she tugged at her cotton handkerchief. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently. Peter put his hand awkwardly on her arm.

  ‘I shouldn’t have pushed you over. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think it would upset you that much.’

  Kate took in a deep breath to calm herself down.

  ‘It’s not just you,’ she said. ‘When you woke me up I thought I was standing in the kitchen at home. I saw Milly on the floor by the cooker, writing notes on pieces of newspaper and stuffing them into everyone’s shoes. She does that a lot. Well, she can’t write – she’s only two – but she pretends. Then Molly, my dog, trotted in. She stood there, sort of looking at me, but she didn’t jump up or lick my face. She just whined … It was as though she knew I was there but couldn’t see me. And Milly didn’t notice me at all. It was horrible … It wasn’t a dream. I swear it wasn’t a dream. I was there.’

  Peter did not know what to say so he said nothing. Kate mopped her face with her handkerchief. Insects buzzed around them and the birch trees rustled in the breeze. Then Peter remembered the trout.

  ‘Look what I’ve got,’ he said, pulling out the fish from his pocket. ‘Brown trout. Delicious!’

  ‘Wow! Did you catch those?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Do you know how to gut them?’ asked Kate. ‘Have you got a knife?’

  ‘Well, no,’ replied Peter.

  ‘Have you got anything to light a fire with?’ She was sounding a little less impressed.

  ‘No, but I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

  ‘I see – we can’t cook them and we can’t gut them. So how are we going to eat them? Suck them like lollipops?’

  Peter managed to stop himself snapping, ‘Find your own breakfast, then!’ but at least she had stopped crying.

  If Peter had vague notions about making a stone knife out of flint, he soon dropped the idea when an extensive search only yielded a collection of smooth, rounded pebbles. Meanwhile, Kate gave herself friction burns rubbing two sticks together.

  ‘Come on, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go and find a telephone,’ she said.

  They left the trout for the crows and decided to retrace the course of the stream back up the hill. Once they were clear of the wood, the sun beat on their backs and they took off their anoraks and tied them around their waists. It was hard going and when they were near the top Kate flung herself down, panting. Peter followed suit and pushed his hair back from his damp forehead. His gaze settled absent-mindedly on the wood where they had spent the night. It was his nose, rather than his eyes, that first alerted him to the plume of hazy, grey smoke that rose up into the clear air.

  ‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Someone’s lit a fire.’

  For the second time since their arrival, Peter and Kate hurtled down to the bottom of the valley. As they drew nearer to the source of the smoke they heard a man singing.

  ‘My love she did a wooing go. Fol-de-la-la-de-dah. My love she said she loved me so. Fol-de-la-la-de-dah.’

  They did not stop until they reached a small clearing where a mouth-watering smell of grilled trout greeted them. A man with a blond pigtail down his back was tending a wood fire. At the sound of their steps the man turned around to look at them. He had calm, deep blue eyes and a broad, handsome face and he did not seem to be the least surprised to see them. For a second Peter thought he recognised him but then changed his mind.

  The stranger advanced towards the children and gave a graceful bow.

  ‘My name is Gideon Seymour. I hope I may be of some service to you in your trouble. I have, in any case, taken the liberty of cooking your trout.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lost in Time

  In which Peter and Kate discover that

  their troubles have only just begun

  Gideon handed each of the children a crispy-skinned trout which he had
skewered on a long stick. He motioned for them to sit. ‘You need to eat,’ he said. ‘We can talk afterwards.’ All three sat in a circle around the crackling fire, glad to be putting food in their bellies. Peter and Kate shot sidelong looks at Gideon every now and then. There was a quiet dignity about him which made them feel shy. Gideon ate his trout peaceably and when he intercepted one of Peter’s curious glances, he smiled back at him, an open, warmhearted smile.

  Gideon stripped off the last morsels of pink flesh with his teeth then flung the bones into the fire and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He wore a loose white shirt, soiled and torn after several days on the road, and well-worn boots, caked in mud almost to the knees, into which were tucked tight-fitting trousers. A small hawthorn twig had caught in his blond ponytail. On the ground next to him lay a three-cornered hat, less grimy, but of a similar shape to that worn by the Tar Man. Peter wondered why both people he had encountered since his arrival here looked and sounded like people in costume dramas on the television. An explanation for this popped into his mind which he immediately dismissed as being too ridiculous to contemplate.

  ‘Thank you for my breakfast, young master. I watched how you caught the fish. It is a rare skill that you have.’

  Peter looked at him in surprise. ‘You saw me?’

  ‘When I saw the manner of your arrival I had to be sure I had nothing to fear from you. And I believe we share an enemy.’

  ‘Oh please,’ burst in Kate suddenly. ‘I must phone home. My name is Katherine Dyer and my parents will be going mad with worry. Do you have a mobile phone?’

  Gideon looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Or do you know where there’s a phone box?’

  ‘I do not understand you, Mistress Kate.’

  Kate wrung her hands in exasperation.

  ‘How did we arrive?’ asked Peter. ‘What enemy?’

  Gideon searched their eager, anxious faces. What should he do with these children? This was a strange predicament indeed. He looked at the sun climbing ever higher in the sky and stood up purposefully.

  ‘Will you walk with me? I wish to reach my destination before nightfall.’ He swung a large bag over one shoulder and tapped his hat on his head. He looked over at Peter. ‘And may I ask your name, young sir?’

  ‘My name is Peter, Peter Schock.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Gideon continued, ‘is it possible that our paths have crossed before this day? When I first saw your face I felt that someone had stepped over my grave …’ A look of concern swept across his face. ‘You are not, of course … spirits?’ He made light of the question by laughing.

  Kate and Peter remained silent, unsure whether this was a joke. Peter shook his head uncertainly. Gideon clearly felt awkward for he set off up the slope at what seemed a furious pace to the children. At first they were forced to jog to keep up with him but when Gideon noticed how little used they were to walking any distance, he slowed down. Eventually, as though he had been debating what to do, or what to say, or, indeed, what to believe, Gideon answered Peter’s question.

  ‘The enemy I spoke of is the Tar Man. He has stolen your property, has he not? And I, let us say, I have unfinished business with him. He has been pursuing me since I left Highgate, these six days past. Were it not for your timely arrival – which put all thought of my capture out of his head – he would have finally caught up with me, of that I am certain.

  ‘I knew he was gaining on me and I had little strength left, so I concealed myself in a hawthorn bush, yonder.’ Here Gideon paused to point to the northern slopes of the valley where the children had first woken up. ‘Soon the Tar Man came into view on the brow of the hill and as he looked out for me and I peeped out at him, we both witnessed you appear out of thin air like some devilish apparition. At first I feared you were both dead, for you were held as if by invisible ropes to that unworldly object and your heads and limbs lolled down so that you looked like rag dolls. I could not move for I did not want the Tar Man to discover me. He sat on his cart and, by the look on his face, was as terrified as I. A moment later some monstrous force flung your bodies away from the contraption with such power that you landed a dozen paces away. You were lucky to have escaped more grievous injury. I heard the crack as Peter’s head struck a rock.’

  Peter and Kate stopped walking and Peter reached up to touch his tender bruise, which was by now purple and yellow. To be abducted by thieves was one thing but this seemed infinitely worse. Then, as Kate and Peter looked at each other in horror, their expressions changed subtly and both knew what the other was thinking – that Gideon was either mad or lying or mistaken and that it had all been a trick of the light and that there was a perfectly logical explanation for all this. They did not, of course, say as much to Gideon.

  Kate lowered one eyebrow. ‘And so what happened to the, er, contraption that you were telling us about?’ she asked.

  ‘The Tar Man loaded it onto his cart. At one end it was a plain thing, grey and unadorned. At the other there was a silver object that resembled for all the world a giant pear …’

  Peter looked at Kate. ‘The anti-gravity machine,’ he mouthed.

  Kate nodded.

  ‘Yet there was something magical about it,’ continued Gideon, ‘for when he tried to tie it down with rope, it began to dissolve into the air – I could make out the cart through it. It became glassy, like deep, still water. If the Tar Man had not leaped back in terror I would have doubted the evidence of my own eyes.’

  ‘So the magic chest became sort of, blurred round the edges, did it?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Blurred, yes, and transparent, like thick glass. And when my gaze fell upon you, Master Peter, you, too, had started to dissolve into the air in the same ungodly fashion as your device.’

  ‘Me!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘No! That’s not possible!’

  ‘I swear it is true,’ replied Gideon. ‘You all but disappeared in the bright sunshine – I do not know what called you back.’

  ‘This is unreal,’ said Peter under his breath. Kate gripped Peter’s arm in distress.

  ‘You weren’t winding me up, were you? That happened to me, too, didn’t it?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Look, Gideon,’ said Peter, taking a step towards him and failing to hide how rattled he was, ‘we’re really grateful to you for helping us out, but could you please take us to the nearest town, we have to get to a phone urgently.’

  ‘Phone? What or who is this phone? I do not understand you.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you must know,’ said Peter in frustration, cupping one ear in his hand and pretending to chatter. ‘Tel-e-phone … Everyone knows what a phone is.’

  ‘I have told you that I do not,’ said Gideon, raising his voice in anger.

  ‘We’ll show you when we see one,’ said Kate hurriedly. ‘Please forgive us, we’re a bit upset. Could you tell us where we are, please? Which part of Australia is this? Or is it New Zealand?’

  Gideon seemed baffled for a moment then spun round to look at her and, seeing that she was deadly serious, burst into laughter.

  ‘Do you think you are in Austria? Ah no, Mistress Kate, this is not Austria.’

  Kate was about to protest that she meant Australia when Gideon continued: ‘We are a stone’s throw from Dovedale. As the crow flies we are less than two hours’ walk from Bakewell.’

  ‘Dovedale! Bakewell!’ exclaimed Kate, her face radiant with relief. ‘But that’s near to where I live … Oh Peter, we’ll be home by lunchtime!’

  ‘Could you excuse us a moment,’ said Peter and pulled Kate out of Gideon’s earshot. He whispered urgently in her ear.

  ‘I know you want to get home but if this is Derbyshire, how come it’s summer? Look, I do like Gideon but how can we trust what he says when he doesn’t even know what a phone is? And I’m not convinced he’s heard of Australia, either.’

  Kate let out a deep sigh and opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind and shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m so tota
lly confused … I don’t know what to think. Shall we just play along with him until we get to a town?’

  Peter nodded. Gideon was pacing about impatiently, waiting for them to set off again. He seemed offended.

  ‘I mean to reach Bakewell by nightfall. If you wish me to take you there I would ask you to come now. I can escort you to the house of my future employer, where I can ask if you can rest before leaving for London.’

  ‘London?’ repeated Peter. ‘Why London?’

  ‘Do you not need the magic chest to return whence you came? The Tar Man told you – he has taken it to Covent Garden. He lodges, I think, in Drury Lane. He drinks at the Black Lion Tavern where I have seen him many a time with the Carrick gang. I urge you to find him before he decides to find you. The Tar Man will drive a hard bargain, of that you can be sure. But if he means to hand over the booty to his master … then your troubles have scarcely yet begun. His master is a man in need of constant diversion and he has a taste for all things mysterious. So if he takes a fancy to it you may never get it back – it will be lost in a wager or given as payment to his tailor or his wig-maker, or he will demand so high a price you will never be able to pay him. In any case he will deny all knowledge of it. Believe me – for I have cause to know – there is not a more skilful liar in the kingdom.’

  Gideon waited for a response but got none. Neither Peter nor Kate had any idea how to respond to this mass of baffling information. Gideon’s patience was clearly at an end.

  ‘I have delayed long enough. I’m off for Bakewell. Come or stay as you will.’

  He strode over the ridge of the hill and did not look back. Peter and Kate hurried after their best hope of reaching civilisation. Soon Gideon had disappeared into the neighbouring valley.

  ‘I don’t care about the stupid chest,’ said Kate in annoyance. ‘I just want to go home.’

  Kate turned round to take a last look at the valley. She let out a gasp.