“Welcome back, Silo!” they chorused.
“Aren’t you going to the meeting?” said Lily.
“No.”
“Come and help me make an entry in the Chronicles, then,” she said. “I want to record…”
“…all your adventures in the Uplands,” said Lula. “And I’ll go to the meeting…”
“…so we can report that too,” said Lily.
Lula scurried up the steps of the meeting hall.
“We decided to share the Chronicle keeping,” said Lily. “That way we can cope if two exciting things happen at once.”
“Does that happen often?” asked Silo sarcastically, staring back at the bleak expanse of marsh.
“No! This is the very first time! Come in—we changed the hut about a bit.”
It was almost unrecognizable: clean, neatly furnished, and really rather cozy.
“Here…” Silo produced a handsome leather-bound volume from beneath his jacket and handed it to Lily. It was the ship’s log of the Unwelcome and still had many blank pages left. Encouraged by Orlando’s example, he too had done a spot of looting.
“Oh thanks, Silo! This is brilliant! We’re on the very last page of the old Chronicle—there’s so much happened recently!”
“Like what?”
“Well, first the letters came, from something called the State Archaeological Division, and they were full of really, really mad stuff—they said the Island wasn’t an island, it was an Ancient power thing. Every family got one, and they said they owned the place—everyone’s houses and Eel Rights and everything—and they were going to dig it all up. Well, Allman Bean said we should let them because they were government people, but Mum and Dad and loads of others said they could go to hell. So we held an emergency meeting, and Ben Mudford was voted in as new headman. Even some of the Beans voted for him! Ben’s been brilliant. He said we should fight the Division—that’s why we fortified the Island. We expect them any day now, but it’s a bit of a worry because there aren’t that many of us. That woman you came with, though—what lovely clothes she has!—she’s a Raider, isn’t she? Do you think she’ll help us?”
“She already did,” said Silo. “Look, why don’t you go to the meeting? We’ll talk later.”
—
Silo made his way to the top of the lookout tower. A solitary figure stood on the quay, shaking its fist at the dark waters below. Mrs. Mudford was still pursuing her lonely war against mudfish, but otherwise the narrow alleyways of the Island were deserted; nothing stirred in the glittering network of creeks, for all were in the meeting hall, and the great marsh extended flat and featureless under a dull sky. Silo stared out over the familiar landscape with unseeing eyes: he was lost in a tangle of thoughts, and dark and dismal ones at that. He turned his face to the sea as his mother had done so long ago, and as he did so he was swept by a sense of almost unbearable sadness and longing. His mother was long dead, and so was Ryker, and with them had died the bonds of affection that tied him to the Island. He had no place here now, or anywhere else for that matter. Orlando had found his long-lost sister, and perhaps Ruby and the others would soon be reunited with their parents. They would have homes again, and families, but it seemed that he was fated never to share their good fortune. He thought longingly of his father, and then of the unimaginable expanse of lands and seas that lay beyond the Kingdom Isles, and he doubted his chances of ever finding him in so wide a world—if he was even alive. Then something small and bullet-headed bumped against him. It was Maximillian.
“Don’t worry, Silo,” he said. “He looks very happy.”
“Who?”
“Your dad—at least, I think he’s your dad. He looks like you—a little man with mad blue eyes.”
“You’ve had a seeing?” Silo gripped Maximillian by the shoulders. “Tell me! Where was he?”
“I don’t know. A great flat plain all covered in grass. He’s galloping across it on a horse, and thousands and thousands of hairy brown animals are thundering along after him.”
“What kind of animals?”
“A bit like cows, only very big and fierce.”
“So he’s in danger?”
“I don’t think so. He’s singing a song about a goat.”
“And then what happened?”
“I saw a man stealing gardening tools, but that was a different seeing.”
“The one about my father, though—when did it happen? In the past? In the future? When?”
“Right now, I think,” said Maximillian.
Silo stared wildly to the west, where lay the legendary Us of Ay. And his father. He was out there; he and his horse and a herd of thundering zoo cows. Hope flamed in Silo’s heart. He was alive, then; he swore to himself there and then that he would one day find him, however long or difficult the quest might be.
“There’s Valeria and that Ben man,” said Maximillian.
Silo looked down, his mind in turmoil. Valeria and Ben were clattering down the steps of the meeting hut. The meeting was at an end, and the Islanders came bursting out behind them, chattering and shouting and laughing. The mood seemed euphoric. And friendly, for someone looked up and cried: “There’s Silo!” and suddenly he was looking down into a sea of smiling upturned faces. People were waving to him, and there were shouts of “Welcome home!” and Ben was calling to him: “Come down, Silo! Valeria’s told us all about the fleet being defeated—seems like a celebration’s in order.”
The crowd was streaming down the alley to congregate on the quay. Silo descended from the lookout tower, dazed at the strange turn events had taken, and pondering over why his father kept company with cows. But such thoughts would have to wait, for Mudfords and Pattles and even Beans were approaching to shake him by the hand, slap him on the back, and—to his intense annoyance—pat him on the head. The crew of the Sea Pig was carrying barrels and trunks ashore, and Silo was relieved that Valeria chose this moment to present the gifts. Corned beef was a novelty on the Island and everyone gathered around to try it; he was thankful that their attention had turned to preserved meat products, for popularity was new to him and he wasn’t sure he liked it. It seemed that his whole world had turned upside down in a matter of minutes and he sidled gratefully up to Orlando, a tried and trusted friend who could be relied on not to change—although given his thieving propensities this was perhaps a pity.
Orlando was having an animated conversation with Myles Pattle, father to Lily and Lula.
“Welcome home, Silo!” said Myles. He reached out to pat Silo on the head but decided against it when Silo fixed him with his most powerful stare. “Orlando’s been telling me about goatball,” he went on. “I wish we had a team! It’s a pity we don’t keep goats.”
Silo remembered the strange picture he had found among the Ancient documents.
“The Ancients played another game as well—one without goats. It’s a bit similar but they used a ball instead. They had upright nets at either end of the field and had to kick it into them.”
“Maybe we should give it a try,” said Myles. “We’ve got a ball, and Great Goose Flat is big enough for a field. What are the rules?”
“You can’t use clubs,” said Silo, “but apart from that I’m not sure.”
“Well, I dare say we can work them out,” said Myles. “What’s it called?”
Silo hazarded a wild guess. “Football.”
“Anyone for football?” shouted Myles.
Ruby and Drusilla sprang ashore from the Sea Pig, followed by a random assortment of Raiders, and within minutes a mixed crew of Mudfords and Pattles were climbing aboard the big raft, ready to ferry the teams over to Great Goose Flat.
The Beans were otherwise occupied. A group of them were rooting through Mrs. Morgan’s luggage. It contained a quantity of long black dresses and they were proving to be popular items, especially among the menfolk.
“Sacks with sleeves!” cried Allman’s younger brother, Arnott. “How smart is that?”
Silo was
about to tell them that on Mainland only women wore dresses, but then he saw his old enemy Boris Bean trying one on and decided against it. He never had liked the Beans.
Ben appeared at his side. “Glad to be home, Silo?” he said.
Silo hadn’t made up his mind yet, so he changed the subject.
“Lily told me you’re the headman now. Congratulations.”
“Yeah—who’d’ve thought it?” said Ben, his face brightening. “But there’s loads of folk as voted for me. It’s a real honor, and I mean to make the Island a better place while I’m in charge. We’re on the lookout for a new schoolteacher, and we’re thinking of putting a seagoing fishing fleet together so we won’t be so reliant on eels. And we’re making a new harbor to attract a bit of shipping too. Funny, Valeria and Black Tom turning up when they did—they say they and their friends will put in here from time to time, and hopefully other ships will follow. Seems to me we’ve been cut off for too long. We could do with a bit of a shake-up—new faces and new ideas and so on. Some of the Beans have moaned a bit, but most folk are agreeable to the idea.”
Here was a radical change of direction for the Islanders, one that Silo thoroughly approved of. “I think you’ll be a brilliant headman,” he said.
“It’s good of you to say so,” said Ben. He looked at Silo, his face full of concern. “I hope you weren’t too upset by the poor reception when you arrived, but you know how it is—all those old stories about bad luck and dark powers and so on. But I reckon the record’s been put straight now. We know now how much we owe to you and your gift of the seeing. You’ve your friend Orlando to thank for that.”
Silo was struck by sudden misgivings. “What did he say exactly?”
“Why, he told us about your seeing, and how you planned your escape from the Unicorn Tower, and how you rallied your fellow captives. He repeated your speech almost word for word—stirring stuff, that! And he told us about your fighting off the watchman to steal a raft, and your smart plan to recruit the Raiders and set a trap for the fleet. He said you played a brave part in the battle of Ludgate Canal too; told us about you climbing the mast of the Unsinkable, arrows whizzing all around you, and setting fire to their flag. It’s a wild life you’ve been leading, Silo—I only wish I’d had adventures like that!”
So did Silo. Indignantly he looked around for Orlando, only to see him drifting across Goose Creek on the big raft. When Silo caught his eye, Orlando grinned and gave him a conspiratorial wink. Truly the boy was incorrigible, and when Silo spoke, his words were a masterpiece of understatement. “Orlando exaggerates a bit sometimes,” he said.
And then he related his version of events since he left the Island: the true, chaotic version of their escape and flight, capped with their extraordinary stroke of luck in stumbling upon the Raiders’ secret base.
When he had finished Ben was silent for a while, then said: “Seems like your friend talked things up a touch, but the fact is, you had a seeing and you came back to warn us. Not everyone would’ve done that, not after the way you were treated by some folk here. And you did escape from the Unicorn Tower, and you did find the Raiders and lead the fleet into a trap. You say that things weren’t planned out that way, and that luck was on your side—so what? It’s still down to you that the Division were defeated—and just as well. If they’d come here, we’d’ve fought them, but we’d not have beaten them. So you did save the Island, Silo, and I think we’ll stick with Orlando’s version. It’s a fine story for one thing, and besides, most folk here have thought the worst of you for way too long. It seems only fair they should think the best of you for a change. And now”—he smiled down at Silo—“what do you say to watching a bit of football?”
—
The game on Great Goose Flat was getting along splendidly—the Islanders versus the Sea Pigs. The latter wore horned helmets, so the two teams were easy to distinguish, and a cheering crowd lined the sides of the pitch, urging on their players. A large fishing net supported by spars stood at each end, each manned by a goalkeeper—Myles Pattle and Ruby. Silo and Ben arrived just in time to see Drusilla kicking Lula high into the air, only to be sternly admonished by the referee.
A breathless Orlando hurled himself down at their feet. “I’m spent!” he said. “I’ve just been substituted. Good game, though, and I think we’ve sorted the rules. You can’t kick other players, only the ball. You can’t punch them either, or gore them if you’re wearing a horned helmet—might have to ban horned helmets, actually. We’ve punctured two balls already.”
As Silo watched, little Benjamin Bean made a weaving run, the ball seemingly glued to his feet, then passed it to Mrs. Mudford, who, with an agility surprising for her age, chipped it neatly into the net just beyond Ruby’s clutching fingertips. Ruby spread her arms in incredulous appeal, and there were cheers from the Islanders and a chorus of boos and cries of “Offside! Are you blind, ref?” from the away support.
Silo surveyed the scene proudly. It seemed that football was a success.
—
As evening fell Silo was to be found on the Causeway, looking toward the Uplands as he had last done on that fateful April morning. He had seen and learned much since then; already it seemed like a lifetime away. The sea sighed to his left and the marsh festered to his right, and above him the ragged clouds were tinged gold with the first rays of the setting sun. Flocks of wading birds wheeled all about him, and skeins of honking geese were flying home to their evening quarters on Great Goose Flat.
Maximillian was at his side. “It’s nice here, Silo. Are you going to stay?”
Silo shook his head. “I’ll sail with the Raiders.”
“But why?”
Silo had many reasons. He wanted the Island and all the other little places like it to be safe from the greed of the Government. He wanted vengeance on the State Archaeological Division. He wanted Elgarth to find that he was fighting on the losing side. But most of all he wanted his father to be proud of him. He would meet him one day, of that he was certain, and when he did he needed to give a good account of himself. But to Maximillian he said: “I have to try to restore a just government to the Kingdom Isles. It was my mother’s dying wish.” He drew himself up to his full height. “It’s my destiny. I’m the last of the Zycos.”
“No you’re not,” said Maximillian. “You’re going to have eleven children.”
“Eleven!” Silo was appalled. “Look, just don’t tell me stuff like that. If you have any seeings about me, things that happen way in the future, I don’t want to know, OK?”
“Not even about the rampaging warthog?”
“Especially not about the rampaging warthog!”
Maximillian was hurt. “I won’t if it makes you cross.”
A small fishing boat was making its way to Parris Port. It contained a cargo of sprats, four fishermen, an evil-smelling dog, Rankly, and Elgarth. The latter two looked rather the worse for wear and were much decorated with lumps and bruises. The last few days had been utterly vile, and Elgarth was thinking longingly of the food, bed, bath, and medical services that awaited them in harbor. His recollections of the Battle of Lundun were distressingly vague: Silo fleeing up the mast, a joyful certainty of victory, and then a sudden, terrifying flight, followed by icy water and oblivion. He had awoken hours later with a splitting headache, only to find himself adrift beneath the stars in a small open boat. He had the faithful Rankly to thank for his escape, but he had awoken feeling anything but grateful, and things had gone steeply downhill from there. Navigating their way out of the Ancient city had been a nightmare. There had been strange currents and whirlpools, an unpleasant interlude with a walrus, and they had run aground on something called a DIY superstore.
But now at last they were safe. They had hailed the fishing boat in the Gutfleet Sound. The fishermen had been unwilling to take them on board at first, fearing that they were the ghosts of the Ancient dead, and it had taken all of Elgarth’s persuasive powers, together with the promise of a large sum o
f money, to overcome their superstitious fears. But sanctuary was in sight now, and Elgarth looked longingly at the clustered buildings of Parris Port. He had gone off seafaring in a big way, and everything to do with ships and the sea. And dry land looked especially attractive today: the streets were bustling, colored flags were strung around the harbor, and a band was playing on the quay.
“What’s all that in aid of?” he asked one of the fishermen.
“I expect the governor’s arrived. They were making an almighty fuss about it when we left. He’s a very important bloke, they say, and he’s come in person to welcome the fleet home.”
Elgarth was struck by a truly dreadful thought. “What’s he called?” he asked.
“Governor Early.”
Elgarth was overcome with horror. He remembered the optimistic letter he had tossed off before he left Parris Port, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought it would produce such awful consequences.
Rapidly he took stock of the situation, and his conclusions were as grim as could be. Acting on information provided by him, Elgarth Early, the Government’s fleet had followed the Sea Pig into a well-planned and ruthlessly efficient ambush, and a catastrophic defeat had ensued. Seven ships and their attendant crews had set sail, together with a whole army of collectors, but of that great armada only he and Rankly had arrived back safely, and in a stinking fishing boat at that. The whole fiasco was going to take a huge amount of explaining, and it was he who was to be the bearer of the calamitous news. He thought of his father’s volatile and violent temperament and his heart quailed within him. Already he could see his hulking figure among the crowds, for his father was a conspicuous man, big in both size and personality. A small crowd of dignitaries observed him from a safe distance as he strode impatiently up and down the quay.
Silo and the Rebel Raiders Page 22
