Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero

by Francesca Armour-Chelu

  “Gulper! Back up here slowly. Don’t show you’re scared,” Fenn said.

  “But I am!” Gulper managed to croak.

  The wolf was looking at Fenn now; instinct telling it that Fenn was the leader. It growled deeper and sniffed the air, looking for his scent. Fenn brandished the pole, but the wolf stood its ground. It now turned its huge head in a low menacing sweep away from Fenn to Comfort as Amber pushed her up the mound of earth towards the window. It lowered its head and dropped a little on its front paws, preparing to pounce.

  Comfort was now safely through the window. Fenn glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw Amber disappear through the hole too. The wolf watched them go, still growling. It took another step forward, challenging Fenn.

  “Go!” Fenn shouted. He swung the pole back and forth in an arc to give Gulper and Fathom time to scramble up the mound.

  The wolf continued to pad forwards, but still it didn’t spring. It was too old, too weak to fight with all of them, but now there was just the one. Fenn swung the pole, catching the wolf on its snout as it nosed forward. The wolf yelped and stumbled sideways, watching Fathom disappear through the window; then it lifted its head and let out a long howl. Fenn’s blood ran cold; the wolf was calling the pack back. Instantly Fenn caught the sound of another howl from out on the marsh. In the dark, from all around, the air filled with low moans and answering whines.

  “Don’t run!” Fenn shouted as he edged up the slope, half on his back. As he tried to haul himself through the window, he saw the wolf lower its front legs, preparing to leap. He hurled the lantern down the mound of earth and as it fell the paraffin leaked out, spraying the room with fire and setting Fenn’s pole alight. The wolf ran snarling and snapping into the dark, shying away from the tumbling flames. Seizing his chance Fenn scrambled through the hole.

  “Don’t run!” Fenn yelled again to the others as he stumbled out onto the pitch black marsh.

  But it was too late; they were all sprinting for the cover of the nearest reedbeds.

  Fenn ran after them, holding the burning pole, stumbling over clumps of sedge as he lurched towards the tall grasses. Fear had plugged their ears and panic blinded their eyes. Fenn was the only one to see the flashing green in the dark; the pack was already in the reedbeds, separating out and making a net ready to encircle them. There was nothing for it; they had to stay together, so Fenn ran towards the wet black of the bulrushes. Suddenly the snarling and panting sounded much closer.

  “Stop!” Fenn yelled.

  By the time he found them, they were huddled together, terrified. The wolves were all around but still not showing themselves.

  “Form a circle! Face outwards!” Fenn shouted.

  He swung the burning pole in a circle around them, then wrenched up some rushes and quickly twisted them together. He lit the end and threw them to Fathom, who then lit a second clump of rushes he’d torn up. Soon they were all clutching burning brands of reeds. But even the fiery lights didn’t deter the pack. The wolves grew bolder, slipping in and out of the reeds, sizing up the gaps between the children and working out a way to separate them. They were eyeing up the smallest and weakest: Comfort. Suddenly one of them saw a chance and launched itself at her.

  Fenn threw himself in front of Comfort and waited for the wolf to tear into him. Instead there was a twang and the wolf yelped and twisted mid-leap, falling lifelessly into the mud beside them. A few seconds later another larger wolf suddenly stopped in its tracks and began whining and sniffing the air. A gleam of silver streaked through the reeds like an arrow. Then there came a sharp bark and a rushing sound from above. In an instant the second wolf fell beneath the snarling jaws of a huge white wolfhound. It was Gelert, Lundy’s faithful hound. A second later another twang sounded and a wolf yowled in the darkness, then they heard a dull thud as it fell down onto the soaking earth. A third wolf shot past Fenn, savagely thrashing its jaws from side-to-side as it skimmed past his legs. Two more wolves, their muzzles stretched back across their teeth, sprang just a few inches beyond Amber, with Gelert bounding after them, snapping at their hind legs as he chased them off. Fenn listened as more wolves started snarling in the darkness nearby, followed by Gelert’s tormented bark. Then he heard a cry.

  Suddenly the entire pack melted back into the whispering reeds and the marsh fell oddly silent. Fenn stumbled through muddy water to find Gelert whimpering. He had a cut down the side of his leg, but instead of licking it clean he was tugging at something lying on the ground. As Fenn ran up his heart flipped, thinking it was Halflin. He knelt down and pushed the tangle of crushed reeds away.

  It was Lundy.

  He tried to pull her upright. His hands were immediately covered in blood. A terrible gash ran across her collarbone and she was bleeding heavily.

  “Help! Over here!” he shouted. The others rushed over and together they gently lifted Lundy up and carried her onto drier land.

  “Quick! Get round me!” Fenn ordered. “Make a circle. The wolves are afraid of the flames.” He took his jacket off and pushed it under Lundy as best he could, then ripped off his jumper and pressed it hard against the wound.

  “Fenn,” Lundy whispered, rasping for air.

  “Shh,” he said, gently taking her hand and pressing his other hand down hard on the jumper. He’d seen too many animals dying to not recognise the look in her eyes. Gelert whimpered loudly. He knew too.

  “You weren’t meant to come back,” Lundy whispered.

  “It’s all right,” he answered, tucking the coat tightly around her. “My friends are with me.” Lundy tried to shake her head, but she was too weak.

  “You have to leave! Now! All of you,” she managed at last.

  Fenn stroked her arm, trying to reassure her.

  “We’ll get you home. Halflin will know…”

  Lundy gripped Fenn’s wrist with surprising strength.

  “He’s gone,” she sighed heavily. A wolf growled somewhere nearby and Fenn was distracted for a second. He shook his head; he couldn’t have heard properly.

  “Gone?” he repeated, frowning. Halflin couldn’t leave the Punchlock. Hadn’t he always said he could never leave? “Where?” he asked. Lundy closed her eyes.

  “Dead,” she said, her voice feeble as thistledown.

  Lundy’s words looped in his mind, making no sense. It was as though he had lost his footing and was falling through air. Like the time he missed a tread climbing back down from the loft, and had pitched head first towards the floor, certain in that split second that he was going to die. But Halflin had lunged across the kitchen and just caught him, so Fenn was bruised but not broken. Now his catcher was dead and Fenn was dropping into emptiness, with nothing to break his fall. He felt like he’d been winded and would never breathe again. Fenn shook his head; he’d only been gone seven weeks, people don’t just die. If his grandad had died, he would have known. He would have felt it. Wouldn’t he?

  At last he took a breath. The air ripped thornily down his throat and filled his lungs with a cruel coldness, as if he was drowning. Nothing ordinary could ever be ordinary again, not even breathing.

  “How?” he asked, staring blankly. Pain was balling up in his lungs like it had when he’d swum through the sinking boat the night of the Sweep.

  “Chilstone. Tried to get word to you,” Lundy answered. She began to cough, clutching at Fenn’s arm with the last of her strength, pulling him nearer. “Your parents…” Lundy was trying to talk quickly, desperate to jam everything vital into her final breaths, using up the last dregs of her life on him.

  “They had nothing to do with that attack on Chilstone’s ship. They were coming to light the Punchlock – it’s the signal to start the revolution. It wasn’t just about revenge; Chilstone killed them to stop the Seaborns rising up – to kill our last hope.” Her voice was becoming inaudible and her eyelids flickered. Fenn knelt closer so she wouldn’t have to struggle so hard to be heard.

  “There’s a key…”

  “A ke
y?” he asked.

  “The Demaris’…” Lundy tightened her grip around Fenn’s wrist until her fingers pinched. She was losing her hold on life so was keeping a hold of him. “It proves who you are but Halflin hid it, to protect you…”

  Fenn felt her fingers loosen, like a rope slipping its knot.

  “Lundy…” he began, but her face was blurry as tears filled his eyes; he wanted to thank her. He’d never thanked her, and now it was too late.

  He put his ear a few millimetres from her barely moving lips to hear her last words, but whatever she was trying to say, he couldn’t hear. Instead she smiled slightly as Gelert licked her hand, then she closed her eyes.

  23

  They buried Lundy by the Ionia that night under the scattering snow. While Fenn and Fathom cut away the turf for the grave, Fenn finally decided he’d have to trust Fathom with the truth and told him what he was going to do, and why. Meanwhile, Gulper helped Comfort pick a few celandines and the two of them made a posy with these and a sprig of mistletoe, which they tucked between Lundy’s folded hands. Amber unhooked a sail from where it had been hung to dry and made a shroud for Lundy’s body; no one wanted to place her in the cold earth without some cover. Then they lay the clods of turf over her, and on top of this piled the big flat stones she’d collected for this sole purpose; she’d always known the earth would be too wet to dig a deep grave when the time came. Fenn scratched her name on a piece of slate with a shard of flint, then all five children piled the wet, black earth up against the rough stone and silently said farewell, wiping their hands clean on their clothes.

  While they worked, Gelert lay quietly, but when Lundy’s body was covered he circled the stones again and again, whining. Finally he lay down on the grave and rested his head on his massive paws, and no cajoling could make him move.

  It was time to go. As the children took what they needed from the Ionia, replenishing their meagre supplies of food and clean water, Amber found Lundy’s cat hiding. She carried it out with it purring in her arms; two kindred spirits.

  “I’m taking the cat,” she said.

  “Put it in the catch basket then,” Fenn answered, barely looking up. He whistled to Tikki, who had scampered up onto Amber’s shoulder, trying to tease the old tom cat, and Tikki ran to Fenn, squeaking with excitement and anger. Amber waited for Fenn to say more, but he simply draped Tikki around his neck and silently packed his rucksack. She had tried to ask him about Halflin as they carried Lundy back to the Ionia, but he wouldn’t say anything except that they had to get off East Marsh. The night was fading to mauve, but Gelert still refused to move, growling when Fathom tried to drag him away by his collar.

  “Leave him,” Fenn snapped.

  He knew Gelert was never going to leave Lundy and wished he’d had the same tenacity with Halflin. Then he forced himself to stop thinking like that. Now was not the time. All he needed to think about was getting his friends off the marsh and to safety. That was all that mattered. Fenn pulled out two rabbits from the meat safe that Lundy must have caught the day before and dropped them by Gelert. He didn’t so much as glance at them.

  “Ready?” Fenn said to the others as he hitched his bag onto his back. He set off without another word. He wanted to get to the Punchlock before dawn properly broke, then, if there were still boats there, they could catch the early tide.

  They trudged on, the marsh waking up around them, the light fresh and bright. The wind scattered the clouds, shaking meagre flurries of snow that instantly dissolved in the warming sun. None of it mattered to Fenn and he couldn’t find a single word to say to anything Amber asked or pointed out. An hour passed in silence, save for the meowing from Amber’s cat, when suddenly Fathom pointed through the reeds.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  From where they stood the tethering post of the Punchlock looked like a gallows; a high post with an arm at a right angle to it, from which an iron chain dangled and creaked in the icy breeze. Amber shuddered. Winter winds had stripped the trees of their leaves and through the scribble of branches Fenn caught sight of the snowy roofline of his old house.

  “The Punchlock,” Fenn answered. He hardly bothered to look. The sight of Halflin’s prison made him sick with anger and now was the time for clear, cold thinking.

  Fenn led them up the secret path he and Halflin had escaped along the morning he’d seen the Warspite. When he got to the old oak tree the path forked, and he pointed out the way that led through the gorse bushes down to the Punchlock. It was foggy over the water but he could make out the shapes of the boats that had been waiting to be sunk the morning he and Halflin had run to Lundy’s. They were still tethered, awaiting their fate, except it had turned out to be Halflin’s last day, not theirs. Fenn took a deep breath to quell the dizzying hatred he felt for Chilstone. He knew he had to keep his head; his heart was broken, but not his spirit.

  “Guess there’s no need to go back for the Salamander,” Fathom said, following his gaze.

  “Which one should we take?” Amber asked.

  “You should take the old Gleaner,” Fenn answered brusquely. “Barges get picked up more and Gleaners are lighter; get through less fuel.”

  “You?” Amber said, sharp as a whip crack.

  Fenn ignored her.

  “The fuel’s in the work shed. If it’s locked there’s a key on top of the lintel. Keep your eyes open. Nicking boats from a Punchlock carries an automatic death sentence.”

  Amber stared at him intently.

  “I’ll see if there’s anything there we can use back at…” He nodded his head towards the hut, but he wasn’t going to call it home. Home meant Halflin. The others disappeared down the path.

  Fenn slowly crept up between the gorse bushes and silverwort until he reached the garden at the back of the hut, then he slipped up into the woodshed. The chicken perch was bare and the pigsties were silent. The old sow had gone. A breath caught in Fenn’s throat. He hadn’t expected to miss the pig. He tiptoed out and slipped behind the sails Halflin had been mending, which still hung, stiff with a starch of frost. Using the sails as cover he ran towards the hut.

  The back door was hanging open and banged in the breeze. For one happy second Fenn had the strongest sensation Halflin was still alive, as if he’d just come in and slammed the door behind him, and before he knew it, Fenn had an excuse ready for why he was outside the hut. But then the door swung open again, showing the lightless interior. There was no one there. No one to tell him off any more, no one to make excuses to.

  He crept inside. The place had been ransacked; the table and chairs knocked over and the shelves swept clean of their belongings, which lay broken and ground into the floorboards. Leaves had blown in over the kitchen floor, there were bird droppings on the shelves and a confusion of prints that showed animals had sheltered there.

  Tikki jumped down and started sniffing the floor nervously; he could smell Fenn, but there were other dangerous scents here. Wolves had been in, looking for food, marking their territory, seeing if the hut would make a good den.

  Most of the bottle glazing had been smashed out from the windows and the sackcloth curtains ripped away. Halflin’s drying rack had been pulled down, leaving leaves and seed heads scattered all over the ground. Behind the cold stove, a mound of something white and soft lifted and scattered in the draft from the open door, catching Fenn’s eye. He knelt down and gathered up the mass of feathers spread around the shrivelled remains of the old gull. It must have starved.

  He didn’t cry. He didn’t even feel like crying. Instead he cradled its desiccated body for just a moment before gently wrapping it in some sackcloth and laying it back in the shadows.

  As he straightened up Fenn saw the rug had been kicked out of the way, revealing Halflin’s secret stash-hole. He rushed to it and looked in. Darkness stared back at him but then he cast his mind back, remembering the second cubby hole behind the first. He gently pushed his finger into the missing knot of wood and pulled the panel out. Ther
e was a tin. Tikki came and nosed at his hand as Fenn lifted it out and opened it.

  Inside was Halflin’s medicine, a few pieces of jewellery, a compass and a wallet of fake sea-permits. Four of them were pristine, never used. Fenn sighed with relief; his friends were safe. He was just stuffing the tin in his rucksack when he saw something lying in the thick dust of the secret hole. He reached down and lifted it up. It was a key, dulled with age, dangling on a tarnished chain. The grip was gold, shaped like rope and fashioned into a D, with a twisted design like a mooring knot around it. Fenn held it up, staring as it spun back and forth, gleaming softly in the early morning sunlight. Such a tiny thing, but Halflin considered it dangerous enough to be hidden for thirteen years. Fenn gritted his teeth; it had been dangerous without it so he might as well be reunited with the tiny object. He looped the key around his neck.

  As he stood up, a little pouch fell on the floor, which must have fallen from the tin. He picked it up and pulled the two cords open. Inside were five or six curls of what he guessed was his jet-black baby hair, tied with tiny pieces of thread. They had been saved by Halflin, as treasured and secret as everything else in the tin. Fenn yanked the cords to close it again and dropped it back in the dark. Then he, put the panel back, scuffed the rug back over, hooked Tikki under his arm and hurried out.

  The others were already waiting by the Gleaner by the time Fenn got back, and small pillows of blue smoke were puffing out from its soot-speckled funnel. Gulper dragged the last barrel of diesel from the work shed, up to the vessel’s side.

  “Think that’s enough?” he asked as he rolled it onto the deck. Fenn nodded.

  “Find anything?” Fathom asked. Fenn read the Gleaner’s name.

  “The Madeleine,” he said. “Good name for a boat.”

  He handed the wallet with the permits over to Fathom.

  “These will get you anywhere,” he said quietly. “Look after them; one for each of you.”