Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘Everyone knows that one,’ says Clementine. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a stupid scruffer song.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ says Lukas.

  We all turn to look at him.

  ‘Really?’ says Teddy, raising an eyebrow. ‘It used to be a smuggler song, but I reckoned everyone in Taladia must have known it by now. Dunno why it caught on, really. I reckon that tune about the drunken caterpillar is catchier.’

  A gust of wind blasts through our grove, and I turn my face sideways to avoid the dust. A couple of leaves flutter down onto our sleeping sack, and I’m suddenly grateful for the circle of magnets around us. These bare-limbed trees seem like a worse and worse hiding place by the minute. But I stare up at the stars, and think of my mother’s voice.

  Oh mighty yo,

  How the star-shine must go

  Chasing those distant deserts of green . . .

  I don’t realise I’m whispering the lyrics aloud, until Lukas gives me a smile. When I was a kid, on those first lonely nights after the bombing, I used to sing myself to sleep with the star-shine song. I guess my lips haven’t forgotten the temptation to whisper the tune.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Lukas says.

  I shake my head, embarrassed to have been caught. But to my surprise, another voice soon continues the song. It’s Maisy. A moment later, she’s joined by Teddy, and then I find myself singing along again.

  It’s ridiculous, really, to hold a campfire singalong out here. For a start, we don’t have a campfire. Besides, we’re all exhausted and starving and grieving. But the song makes me feel like a kid again: safe and warm. The others must feel something similar, because countless Rourton parents choose this song as a lullaby.

  Oh mighty yo,

  How the star-shine must go

  Chasing those distant deserts of green.

  We shall meet with the tree-lands

  Then bet with the stream’s hands

  As star-shine’s fair pistol shall gleam . . .

  Lukas sits up. ‘What was that last bit, again?’

  ‘As star-shine’s fair pistol shall gleam,’ I repeat. I don’t see why he’s looking so excited about a corny folk song, but my words seem to confirm the glint in his eye.

  ‘And before that,’ he says, ‘the bit about the tree-lands, and the stream . . . Don’t you see, Danika? Don’t you see what this song is about?’

  And suddenly, I do. I see what’s been before our eyes the entire time, what I’ve been too blind to realise. This song started life as a smuggler ditty, and smugglers don’t do anything without a reason. This song isn’t just a pleasant tune. It’s a map.

  It’s our map to the Valley.

  ‘The tree-lands,’ I whisper. ‘That means the forest, doesn’t it? And the line about the stream’s hands – that’s how Radnor knew to follow the river!’

  Teddy’s mouth splits into a grin. ‘And it doesn’t just say “the stream,” it says to bet with the stream! Remember what I said when we first saw the Marbles? It looks like you could bet on a game of marbles out there . . .’

  We all stare at each other, numb with hope and excitement. If we’re right, if the whole song started as a smuggler’s map to the Valley . . .

  ‘As star-shine’s fair pistol shall gleam,’ says Maisy, pointing upwards. ‘Do you think . . . do you think that’s our next clue?’

  I follow her gaze up to the right, where the Pistol constellation shines. Pointing our way forward through the night. And I know, suddenly, that she’s right. This constellation is our map. The Pistol will guide us out of these fields. So long as we can see the stars, we will never be lost.

  ‘There’s another verse,’ says Teddy. ‘Do you reckon it tells where to go next?’

  All at once, as though by prior arrangement, we recite the second verse of the song.

  Oh frozen night,

  How the dark swallows light

  When the glasses of hours hold on

  I shan’t waste my good life

  I must follow my knife

  To those deserts of green and beyond.

  There’s a moment’s pause as we all digest the words.

  ‘What does that mean?’ says Clementine.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we’ve just got to follow the Pistol for now, and worry about the second verse once we’ve passed Gunning.’

  ‘Hey, we don’t need to worry about it,’ says Teddy. ‘I reckon Hackel knows what it means, doesn’t he? He’s a smuggler; he’d know the meaning of a smuggler song.’

  Relief fills my belly like warm soup. He’s right. We won’t be lost forever. If we can just follow the Pistol towards Gunning, and meet up with Hackel . . .

  ‘We’re going to make it,’ says Lukas. He gives me another quiet smile. And this time, I return it.

  In the morning, we pay close attention to where the sun rises in relation to the fading Pistol constellation. Maisy stretches her arm to draw a line between the sun and our packs, figuring out the angles.

  ‘Right, I’ve got it,’ she says. ‘I think I can find our way.’

  I hate stepping back into the grass. I feel like a tiny ant, venturing blindly into an enormous carpet. But at least we’re not so lost today. Maisy keeps an eye on the sun, using it to guide us forward. Even as it shifts across the sky, she seems able to adjust the angles in her head. I can’t help wishing for a bit of her intelligence myself, since I find the grass completely disorientating. On city streets, I’m con­fident and savvy. Out here, I’m prey.

  The day is cold, but also bright. Around noon, the sun is right above us, so I roll up my sleeves to absorb the warmth. It’s one of those quiet winter days when the air seems somehow frozen and alight, all at once. My nose isn’t stinging too badly, and even Maisy rips off her improvised gloves.

  ‘Look!’ says Lukas, pointing up.

  I squint. All I see is the sun, blindingly aligned above our heads. Then I spot the movement: a lone hawk, rising against the sky. It reminds me of Lukas’s kite, the way it dips and soars in the wind. ‘Can you borrow its eyes?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah, I can. Is it all right if we stop for a minute?’

  The others nod. Teddy seems to have a clear idea of what Lukas intends to do, because he jostles the rest of us out of the way. ‘He’ll need a clear line of sight. I’ve done this with rats a few times in Rourton, and it’s trickier than it looks.’

  ‘Rats?’ says Clementine, looking disgusted. ‘Why would you want to look through the eyes of a rat?’

  Teddy grins. ‘Hey, rats see more than you’d think. They’re experts on breaking into richies’ houses.’

  Lukas stands stiff and tall, craning back his neck to survey the sky. He’s clearly waiting for something, but I’m not sure what, because the hawk is still visible overhead. He must need a certain angle – perhaps a clear view of the creature’s eyes – because he steeples his hands together and points them skyward, then peers along the resultant line.

  His body jerks and his green eyes flash. He lets out a horrible cry. For a second I think it must be pain, then I realise it’s the screech of a hawk. The entire thing might be comical if everyone didn’t look so serious, and if Lukas’s eyes weren’t as empty as gutters. He opens his hands slowly, like unfolding butterfly wings, and stares into his palms.

  ‘What’s he looking at?’ I whisper to Teddy.

  ‘Using his palms as a screen, I reckon,’ says Teddy. ‘He can see what the hawk’s seeing, reflected down onto his own skin.’

  ‘You reckon? Why, what did you do differently?’

  ‘Well, I use mirrors instead of my hands. They’re a lot clearer.’

  I glance at Lukas’s hands. They look normal to me: just dirty skin and a few scratches from our journey. I certainly can’t see what the hawk’s seeing, anyway. But Lukas must have noticed something
, because his mouth splits into a grin and he lets out another screech.

  Teddy rolls his eyes. ‘Amateur.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘Hey, no need to get all defensive,’ says Teddy. ‘I just mean he should learn to control his noises. I would’ve been caught in seconds if I’d run around squeaking in the middle of burglaries.’

  ‘I’m not defensive,’ I say, irritated. ‘Maybe it’s harder to control yourself when you’re seeing the world from up there . . . I bet it’s much more exciting to look through a hawk’s eyes than a rat’s.’

  ‘Unless the hawk eats the rat,’ Teddy grins. ‘Then you’d get an awesome firsthand look at a hawk’s digestive system.’

  Lukas’s eyes flash again, before returning to their usual green. He looks a little dizzy, like some of the patrons I’ve seen on the late-night bar circuit, and he sways lightly on his feet.

  ‘Whoa!’ I catch his arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  He gives a woozy nod. ‘Yeah, I’m just . . .’ He shakes his head, as though trying to clear it. ‘Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  Lukas lowers his hands, glances between us, then glances back up towards the sky. ‘I saw a town.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw a town, Danika. On the side of a hill, less than a day away – if we hurry, we might get there tonight.’ He smiles, letting his news sink in. ‘We’re going the right way.’

  By the time we approach Gunning’s hillside, the grasslands have thinned out into cultivated fields. It’s a relief to escape my claustrophobic response to the grass and to breathe some fresh air. I can even see the horizon now.

  Unfortunately, this also makes our journey more dangerous. The fields are dotted with farmhouses, and we often see people in the distance. Once, we’re almost spotted by a boy with his sheepdog; we throw ourselves into a muddy ditch to hide. Clementine scowls as we clamber back out, ten minutes after the boy has gone.

  ‘Couldn’t we just tell him we were here?’ She swipes fistfuls of mud from her clothes. ‘I would hardly think we’re the first refugee crew he’s seen; he might even have helped us!’

  ‘Yeah, helped to turn us in,’ says Teddy. ‘Or have you forgotten the price on our heads? That kid was skinny as a richie’s croquet mallet – do you really reckon he’d say no to a big sack of coins?’

  ‘A price on her head,’ mutters Clementine, throwing me a dirty look.

  ‘If you still want me to leave the crew,’ I say, ‘then why don’t you just say so?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Clementine looks away. ‘I don’t want you to leave, all right? Not any more. I just wish . . .’

  ‘Yeah, so do we all,’ says Teddy. ‘But I reckon we’ll feel safer when we find Hackel again, right? I mean, you paid the bloke to get us halfway across Taladia.’

  We stop near a dam to clean ourselves, scraping as much muck as possible from our clothing. It’s important to look respectable; we won’t survive long if we traipse into Gunning looking like a battered refugee crew.

  ‘We can’t take the foxary into town,’ says Lukas. ‘Everyone must know your crew rode foxaries out of Rourton. It’ll be a dead giveaway.’

  Teddy doesn’t look happy. ‘What are we supposed to do with him, then? We can’t just let him loose – he’ll kill someone if he’s not restrained.’

  ‘We should sell him,’ says Clementine. ‘Foxaries are too expensive to just throw away. If we sold him to a farmer, at least I’d get some of my money back.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Lukas. ‘I doubt there’s been coverage of my face in the papers, so the farmers wouldn’t recognise me.’

  Teddy shakes his head. ‘How do I know you won’t just run off and steal him for yourself?’

  ‘He saved our lives, Teddy,’ I say.

  ‘So what? Maybe he just wanted to nick our foxary. That’s what I would’ve done, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, but not everyone is a thieving pickpocket!’

  I can feel myself getting worked up, which is ridiculous, because the most important thing for a crew is to trust one another. But I just want to get this stupid argument over with. The sooner Lukas can dispose of the foxary, the sooner we can get into Gunning and find Hackel.

  There is a large farm nearby, with heavily bolted barns and machinery sheds. The walls are stone, not wood, and Teddy lets out a low whistle at the decor­ative bronze window frames. This is the farm of a richie landowner, not a starving peasant. If anyone around here were in the market for a foxary, it would be the owner of this place.

  We position ourselves in a scraggly grove and unload our three remaining packs. Teddy insists he should accompany Lukas to sell the beast, promising to stay out of sight.

  ‘Too dangerous to go without me, I reckon,’ Teddy says. ‘I’m the one keeping him under control.’

  ‘You just aren’t ready to say goodbye,’ says Clementine.

  Teddy laughs and gives the foxary a rub behind the ears. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  I suspect that Teddy’s real motive for accompany­ing Lukas to the sale is that he still doesn’t trust him. This idea is oddly irritating, but I remain silent and try to avoid another argument.

  ‘Bye, Borrash.’ I give the animal a pat on the back. It emits a low grumble, like an alley cat purring, and I’m unexpectedly sorry to see it go.

  Lukas and Teddy are gone for almost an hour. By the time they return, I’m pacing in circles and Maisy looks ready to gnaw a branch off a nearby tree.

  ‘What took so long?’ says Clementine.

  ‘Wasn’t our fault – that old geezer drove a hard bargain.’ Teddy slaps a handful of coins into Clementine’s hands. ‘Here you go.’

  Clementine scowls as she counts the money. ‘I paid three times this much!’

  ‘Yeah, but I reckon it’s easier to overcharge a spoiled richie than a farmer,’ says Teddy. ‘Anyway, that bloke knew he could bargain down; there’s no one else around here who’d pay more.’

  By the time we reach Gunning’s outskirts, it’s twilight. We are exhausted and filthy, worn ragged from another day of traipsing through the wilderness, but at least there’s been no sign of hunters.

  Despite the fading light, we have a decent view of the surrounding farmland. A dirt road leads from Gunning to the west. In the distance, I can just see the point where it meets a larger road: a wide grey snake under the evening sky.

  ‘Is that . . .?’

  Teddy nods. ‘Must be the main trade route. Blimey, good thing we didn’t come that way.’

  We all nod, silent. The trade road runs towards the northern horizon, cobbled with enough stone to build a hundred city walls. But despite its size – or perhaps because of it – the route is painfully exposed. I can imagine hunters scouring its surface, or biplanes soaring overhead. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. On a road like that, we’d be as helpless as crickets in a cooking pot.

  Clementine lets out a slow breath. ‘I suppose Hackel was right. The smugglers’ route might be harder, but it’s safer.’

  We stare at the road for a moment longer, before turning our attention back to Gunning itself. The town spills down the hill’s southern slope, pouring its streets like treacle. There’s a train station on the southern outskirts of town, with a couple of carriages visible beyond the platform. The line itself looks as if it’s coated with silver, gleaming beneath the moon. The train must be partially fuelled by alchemy.

  ‘That looks like the end of the train line,’ says Maisy. ‘They’ve extended the line since my encyclopedias were published; I didn’t think it came this far north. I thought it was impossible to run a train over the mountains.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Teddy says.

  I eye the train line appraisingly. The horizon sinks into dusk behind it, but I can still make out the Central Mountains: an alpine belt across the co
untry, dividing the north from the south.

  Unlike the Eastern Boundary Range, it’s possible to cross these mountains if you’re willing to put your life on the line. Back in Rourton, a shortage of oranges in the market usually meant a snowstorm had buried the mountain road – and in all likelihood, a convoy of fruit traders with it. There was even a jump-rope rhyme about it: ‘Frost and ice and traders slow: orange juice beneath the snow.’

  Standing here, the tune seems a lot less witty and a lot more morbid.

  I notice that the others aren’t watching the mountains. Their gazes are locked on the train line, with its station at Gunning’s southern gate. It isn’t hard to guess what they’re thinking: if we could sneak aboard a train somehow . . . maybe even hide inside a cargo carriage . . .

  ‘Maybe that’s Hackel’s plan,’ says Clementine. ‘That’s probably why he wanted to meet us in Gunning, of all places. We can hitch a ride south on the train.’

  I want to believe that she’s right. It makes sense, doesn’t it? This must have been the real plan all along. We were to follow the river to Gunning, then bribe our way onto a train. It’s the route of a savvy smuggler, if ever there was one, and a far cry from the usual refugee plan of pretending to be honest traders on the road.

  And above all, it’s a lot less likely to end with us under the snow.

  Gunning has a city wall, but the gate isn’t manned. Actually, there’s no sign of guards at all – and that worries me more than if there’d been a fifty-man platoon to greet us. I know how to handle myself with Rourton’s guards, but an unguarded city is a foreign experience.

  ‘Looks like security’s a bit slack.’

  Teddy grins. ‘I like this place already.’

  ‘It’s a smuggling town, isn’t it?’ says Clementine, as we pass through the gate. ‘That’s what Radnor –’

  Her voice hitches on the name.

  A long moment passes. She takes a quiet breath and tries again. ‘That’s what Radnor said. People come here to do deals, and make money. Maybe the palace turns a blind eye to this area a bit, since it’s not a major security risk.’