Fenn noticed how much like a mirror image of each other they were: both scared, both tired of hiding. He knew she’d risked her life when she’d cared for him as a baby and Halflin risked his life every day. With a sharp pang of guilt he remembered all the times he’d snuck out to swim, recklessly putting his grandad at risk, thinking he’d get away with it. He wondered who had betrayed him. The Sargassons loathed Chilstone, so it couldn’t have been one of them. There had always been spies on East Marsh though; they were the reason the Panimengro was so careful to moor in secret. That gave him an idea.
“What about the Panimengro?” He cried. “We could get out on her.”
Halflin frowned, but Lundy’s eyes brightened.
“He’ll be safest off the marsh altogether,” she said, nodding.
The light seemed to fade in Halflin’s eyes as he gazed at Fenn. Lundy was right; the boy would never survive the marsh without him. Halflin had tried to prepare him for the time when he’d be alone, when Halflin died; to teach him which plants killed, which ones cured. But he still had so much work to do; the boy wasn’t ready yet. And how would he eat? Fenn had no hunting skills; Halflin had never been able to take him into the marsh to teach him. All the fears Halflin had ever had for the boy, the nightmares that kept him from sleep and turned his hair white, fell like an arrow shower on him now. If Fenn didn’t wander into a bog, the wolves prowling the marsh would catch his scent and hunt him down by nightfall without Gelert to keep them at bay. But out at sea on the Panimengro? Gleaners were hard work, and if a Terra Firma patrol caught up with them, there’d be no place for the boy to hide.
“It’s time to tell him the truth,” Lundy said quietly.
“About what?” asked Fenn, frowning.
Halflin knitted his brow; he had to make a decision and make it quickly. If he didn’t get back to the Sunkyard before the Terra Firma got there, Chilstone would know for sure something was up, and thirteen years protecting the boy couldn’t end with him drowning in mud or being torn apart by wild animals. Halflin refused to let that be his end. The Panimengro was the only option.
“There’s summat yer shou’ know,” he started. “But we don’t have much time, so listen up.”
He took a deep, shuddery breath; there was no way to sugar this pill. Best say it straight. “Yer parents din’t drown. Chilstone ’ad ’em murdered. They were leadin’ the Resistance.”
“Their names were Tomas and Maya Demari,” Lundy added, quickly pushing a chair beneath Fenn as he buckled in shock.
“An’ yer were…”
Halflin faltered. How could he tell the boy he’d sunk his parents’ boat and that he wasn’t his grandfather?
“Yer were brought ter me … ter look after,” he finished.
Lundy gave him a sharp look but Halflin had clamped his jaw shut. If he had to tell the boy he was alone in the world, he’d do it in his own time, without spectators.
“When the Warspite came, thirteen year back, Chilstone din’t jus’ take them Sargasson bairns fer revenge – he were after yer. Somehow he knew about yer, came searchin’. He’s still searchin’, cos of who yer be. So I kept yer hid.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Fenn asked, guilt about sneaking out making his voice thick and dark.
Halflin knocked the stump of his finger sharply on Fenn’s forehead.
“I din’t lose this finger in a bloody squid’s beak. I were forgin’ papers for the Resistance. Chilstone’s got ways of makin’ folk spill their guts; used the Screw on me. I lost me finger, but kept me secrets.”
Halflin glanced at Lundy to see whether she’d make him tell the whole truth but she’d shut her eyes to seal old horrors out.
“I did wha’ I ’ad ter, boy. Reckoned if yer knew summat, knew anythin’ an’ Chilstone found yer, he’d bleed it out of yer. Like ’e tried wi’ me.”
Lundy opened her eyes. He nodded to her, as if to say, I’ll tell him the rest when I’m ready. Then he turned back to Fenn.
“Now it’s different. Out there yer need ter know who yer be. How much yer matter; ter the Resistance – what’s left of it – and ter Chilstone. They both wan’ yer as bad as each other!”
Halflin shook his head at his failure to keep Fenn safe.
“Yer were always just a rumour ter the Resistance, a puff of hope,” he said. “But looks like yer no secret no more, an’ sure as night follows day, the Resistance will be comin’ fer yer.”
Halflin’s eyes darkened with anger.
“Yer just a kid, but tha’ won’t matter ter them firebrands; ones blowin’ up Fearzeros withou’ first checkin’ who’s aboard. You’ll make ’em a tidy mascot all right. An’ Chilstone? The more the Resistance wan’ yer, the more reason ’e ’as ter kill yer. Understand?”
Halflin stared at Fenn but he was in a daze and consumed by sudden new emotions, a violent desire for revenge. Furious tears welled in his eyes and his knuckles gleamed white as he bunched his fists. He wanted to make Chilstone suffer for everything he’d done.
“Tell him the rest, Halflin,” Lundy murmured under her breath.
“We’ve gotta get goin’,” Halflin said, dragging Fenn to his feet and pushing him towards the door where he hesitated: Lundy was an old friend, he didn’t want to leave behind harsh words. “It were too much to ask yer,” he mumbled.
As Halflin hustled him down the steps and around the back of the Ionia, Fenn looked back, but only Gelert came to the door, his tail wagging sadly as he watched them vanish into the reeds.
4
They ran back into the marsh, northwards this time, through sea lavender and samphire growing in huge bushy clumps, making the air heady with their sweet vinegary scents. The Panimengro had come into the tributary that ran around the southern edge of the estuary, curling inland for a mile or so before shallowing out into mudflats choked with eelgrass. Hidden all along that part of the river were mooring places, where Sargassons and Gleaners met to trade out of sight beneath the leafy water elders. Halflin pulled Fenn past a sign to a place called “Hill Farm”, then on through a copse of dying trees and up to a higher mound from where he could look down across the rivers that weaved through the marshlands. After half an hour’s hard running, Halflin stopped for breath, bent double, hands on his knees and sweat running down his neck. Fenn tried to help pull him up, but Halflin brushed him off; he didn’t want the boy to think he was weak.
“Think the Panimengro’s still there?” Fenn asked.
“Better be or we’re done fer,” Halflin rasped, still clawing for breath. The mists were beginning to clear and they’d soon be visible to any Terras searching the marshlands.
“Who’s the captain?” asked Fenn.
“A Sargasson … called Viktor,” Halflin replied, still straining to see where the Panimengro had moored. There was a jeering chatter overhead and he glanced skywards, grimacing as a single magpie flew across their path; one for sorrow. A bad omen. “He owes me from a long way back.”
“Where’re they headed?” asked Fenn.
“West Isle,” Halflin replied, dragging Fenn by the sleeve as he lurched through the gorse bushes towards a strip of water gleaming in the distance.
The ground under their feet began to squelch as they got closer to the water, and the spiky reeds sliced Halflin’s hands as he pushed past them into a lush crop of velvety bulrushes. He peered through the fuzzy heads swaying in the breeze and pointed.
“There!”
Fenn followed the line of his finger. Down on the water he could just make out the silhouette of a battered boat emerging through the lifting fog. They clambered down towards the mooring post. Apart from the distant oinking of the pigs on the hillside behind them, there wasn’t a sound. They were still a hundred yards or so from the river when the boat’s engine rattled into life, sputtering out a column of smoke from its stack.
“No!” Halflin gasped. He let go of Fenn’s hand and lumbered through the reeds waving his arms wildly. The Panimengro was already pulling away
from the water’s edge.
“Shore ter ship!” he called desperately as he staggered through the treacly sludge that sucked him in deeper with each step. His breath rattled like a box of stones in his chest. “Shore ter ship!”
He dragged himself through the mire, grasping at reeds to pull himself along. At last he broke free and slopped out into the water, shouting until his voice was hoarse. Fenn followed close behind, yelling too.
The Panimengro slowed. On deck a figure materialised through the mist. The engine was cut. Another figure stepped forward and leant on the rail.
“Who’s there?” a voice asked, suspiciously. They knew the punishment for mooring illegally and were ready to fight their way out if they had to.
“Halflin!”
For a few moments there was complete silence, then there came more shuffling on deck. Halflin turned to Fenn.
“Let me talk, they’re jittery,” he whispered.
The Panimengro crew slowly punted the ship towards the bank. Fenn could now see it was wooden, so thickly coated with bitumen that the joints between the strafes were completely obscured. It was an old steam drifter, a little over eighty feet, with a rickety funnel in the middle, and two masts with a patched sail fluttering off the back one. When they were about ten feet from Halflin, Fenn heard a sudden rushing sound and out of nowhere a stout gangplank crashed down into the mud.
While the crew stared silently from the deck, a man crossed over, listing slightly because one leg was shorter than the other, making the lamp he carried jolt with each step. He was lanky and a soaking wet sou’wester hung from his broad shoulders. His gun-metal hair was scraped into braids twining like ivy over his head, then snaking down into a plait that reached his hips.
“Kako Halflin,” he said, ignoring Fenn.
“Viktor,” said Halflin, nodding his head in respect. He managed to suppress his racked breathing and force a smile.
“You’re late,” Viktor said, narrowing his eyes as he scanned for the usual crate of food. “Not tradin’ today?”
“Truth be told, nothin’ much ter trade,” Halflin lied. “Brung yer this though.” He opened his bag and passed Viktor the ham. Viktor hefted it in one hand to check the weight.
“That it?” he asked suspiciously, giving it a sniff before lobbing it back to one of his men.
“A gift.” Halflin smiled. Viktor glowered mistrustfully.
“This one needs gettin’ ter West Isle Marsh. Family business,” Halflin continued casually. “Yer know me kin that way?”
Viktor nodded and cocked his head to one side. He turned to look at Fenn for the first time and lifted the lamp higher to cast a halo of light over him. A terrible scar ran down one side of Viktor’s face, as if he’d been branded, and Fenn could just make out an F shape.
“Still a chavvy, won’t be much use about ship,” Viktor said, looking Fenn over critically. “What’s it worth?” he demanded, aiming a spit into the reeds in a neat arc.
Halflin rummaged again in his bag and handed over the blank permit, gritting his teeth with impatience as Viktor held it up against the light to examine the watermark – the TF logo pressed into the very fibre of the paper. The muscles beneath his cheek twitched, making the scarlet scar flex like a serpent.
Without a permit no one was allowed at sea, and permits were solely Terra Firma issued. This forgery was completely clean of any name so could be sold to the highest bidder who needed a new identity. Hundreds of permits changed hands on the black market, the ink carefully scratched off the paper with the point of a scalpel, but it was dangerous to use them. A brand new blank permit like this was as rare as bees; it was worth vastly more than the Panimengro, but Viktor knew he might get more playing things cool.
“Worth more than yer boat an’ cargo together,” Halflin said impatiently, an ear cocked for any sound from the Warspite. He wondered if they had launched the patrol boat yet, but he was too far from the estuary mouth to see. In his mind’s eye Halflin imagined Chilstone and the Terras arriving at the Punchlock and finding it deserted. He shuddered; it was forbidden to leave it unmanned.
“What’s the nash?” Viktor smiled languidly. Halflin shrugged.
“No hurry, but yer want ter catch the tide, don’t yer?” he replied craftily. “Yer best look slippy!”
“His ID … permit?” Viktor asked.
Halflin huffed and dug deep inside the bag, pulling the other papers out and passing them over. Viktor scrutinised them carefully; nodding, holding them up to the light, one by one, checking each watermark. At last he stuffed both permits into the top of his jacket, thrust the ID back at Halflin and nodded curtly to Fenn. Then he gave Halflin a quick, strange glance – half smile, half scowl – and disappeared back up the gangplank.
Now alone, Fenn turned to Halflin, a quizzical look in his eyes.
It had come. The moment of truth. He was sending the boy away and he must never return. Halflin never wanted him back; it was too dangerous on East Marsh. It was more than the right time; it was the perfect moment to tell him he wasn’t his grandfather and that they meant nothing to each other. Now was the time to say he was just an unlucky Sunkyard owner who saved a lucky child, kept him safe and hidden as best as he could, made him strong and healthy, taught him as much as he could to survive, but did not mollycoddle him nor weaken him with love. The time had come to cut him – like he’d cut his webbed toes thirteen years before. It would be for his own good.
Cut him loose. Cut him free. Cut him clean away for ever.
Say it! Halflin thought. Say it!
But he couldn’t. His throat had turned to lead and his tongue seemed to shrivel in his mouth, shrinking from the words it had to speak. Onboard, the crew were preparing to cast off and whistled at them to hurry. Fenn looked at Halflin expectantly, but the moment had gone.
“Do we board?” he asked, searching Halflin’s face for answers. A sudden scatter of icy rain speckled the water and his teeth began chattering. He was frozen and exhausted. Halflin tucked the ID card in Fenn’s shirt pocket and patted it to make sure it was safe.
“Grandad?”
“Warm enough? It’ll be clap cold offshore,” Halflin said gruffly. Something cracked in his voice. “Best ter keep warm.”
Halflin shrugged off his heavy reefer jacket, hanging it on the twigs of Fenn’s shoulders. It was damp from the marsh and weighed a tonne; Fenn’s puny frame buckled beneath the load, but it was warm. As he dipped under its weight, he felt the truth dawn on him.
“You’re not coming are you?”
Halflin concentrated on jamming the buttons through their holes.
“Pigs’ll need feedin’.” His voice had taken on a different tone; lighter than usual.
He squeezed the last button into its place and jerked his head towards the boat. “Viktor’ll take yer to our kin. Won’t take long; four weeks if the weather holds. Bit longer if yer hit storms.”
“I’m not going without you!” Fenn said stubbornly. Halflin glared at him.
“You’ll do as I tell yer!” he said, trying to keep the shaking out of his voice. “Don’t yer see? I’ve never left the Sunkyard, not fer one night, not in thirteen year. If I come wiv yer, Chilstone will smell a rat! Then they’ll be lookin’ fer an ol’ man an’ a kid. We’ll stick ou’ like a shark’s fin. Yer safer alone.”
Halflin managed to winch the sides of his mouth up to make an almost convincing smile.
“An’ I’m safest stayin’ put,” he said, knowing that was what the boy needed to hear. “Anyhow, won’ be for ever,” he finished with a nod.
It would be for ever. Halflin would make sure of that.
For a moment Fenn looked like he was about to cry and for a second Halflin softened, but he shook it off as quickly as it had come. He took Fenn’s shoulders firmly in his hands.
“Now don’t go blubbin’, it’ll jus’ make yer feel worse… Viktor’s all right. Do as ’e tells yer,” Halflin said, staring hard into Fenn’s eyes. Fenn nodded, though his lips
were quivering. The boat’s engine suddenly snapped into life again and the Panimengro shuddered and rattled as the propeller turned.
“Spies are everywhere, throw ’em off the scent. Tell everyone yer fifteen! Best ter go older; folks will jus’ think yer a runt. Don’t forget wha’ I told yer, but bury it! Bury it deep. Chilstone will hunt yer down and kill yer if ’e finds out, so trust no one an’ nothin’ … ’cept yer instinct. Got it?” With each instruction he roughly shook Fenn’s shoulders.
Fenn nodded obediently and reached out to hug him, but Halflin held firm against affection; it helped no one. Instead he put his arm out, like a battering ram, and pressed the flat of his huge hand on Fenn’s chest, as if trying to drive caution into his very heart. Before Fenn knew what was happening, Halflin had spun him on the spot towards the ship and pushed him along the gangplank.
Fenn felt a tremor of fear run up his legs and through his body. Beneath him the water glinted black as treacle and the sour-sweet smell of brine hit his nostrils. He was halfway across before he realised Halflin’s hand was no longer on his back. He looked over his shoulder but Halflin was already hurrying up the rise in the direction of the hut. A hand grabbed Fenn’s arm and the gangplank was yanked roughly away from underneath him. Fenn was on deck.
Immediately the Panimengro started surging up the river, steam panting from the funnel. The sun was coming up now and the mist was lifting quickly; the crew weren’t wasting any time. Wild geese scattered from their hiding places, skipping across the river until the wind caught their wings, wrinkling the glossy amber water.
Viktor shoved Fenn towards the hatch to get below and out of sight; this wasn’t the first time he’d smuggled someone off East Marsh, but Fenn ran back to the rail. It was freezing and the spiny cold gnawed into his skin, but he stayed, waiting for Halflin to turn and wave, feeling as if something was stuck in his throat, and however hard he swallowed it wouldn’t go away. Instead Halflin hurried away without so much as a backwards glance, back to the hut where Chilstone would be coming for him.
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 4
