by James Erith
Old Man Wood produced a mug, bent down and filled it with the not entirely clean water from the plastic bucket. ‘Now, drink some of this. It’s a wee bit special.’
Isabella knelt down and sniffed it. ‘Smells funny. Slightly sulphuric. Are you sure it hasn’t been infected? If it comes from the flooding, you do realise it’s almost certain to kill us.’
‘My dear Bells,’ the old man said, ‘it’s from the Bubbling Brook—’
‘But your Bubbling Brook place is within the vicinity of the flooding, is it not?’ Isabella said, knowingly. She stood up. ‘This sample needs testing and at the very least boiling before anyone touches it—’
‘It is special water, Isabella,’ Old Man Wood said, his tone exasperated.
‘But why is it so special that it doesn’t require treating?’ Isabella insisted.
Old Man Wood looked at her stunned. Then he turned to the other two for support.
Isabella noticed. ‘All I’m trying to say is, why should this sample be absolutely fine in contrast to a sample taken from anywhere else in the floodwater because, to all intents and purposes, they must be from the same source and therefore infected?’
He shook his head. ‘Because this water will enable you to speak, read and write in any language,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t ask me how it works. It’s an appley-funny-peculiar sensation at first, but you’ll get used to it.’
Daisy shrieked. ‘Ooh! I get it. I had some when I went into the glade – remember?’ she said. ‘I’ve had the coolest conversations with things. Did you know, this house is full of little notes from lovey-dovey mice?’
‘Those are droppings, Daisy,’ Isabella said.
‘Depends on how you read them, Isabella,’ Daisy said. ‘All they go on about is food and sex. They’re at it all the time and they go on and on and on ...’
‘Like someone else we know?’ Archie said.
Daisy hit him. ‘Here, give it to me.’ She grabbed the glass of water from out of Old Man Wood’s hand, raised it to her lips, sniffed it and then, as she stared Isabella in the eye, downed it in one. ‘Ah,’ she said, and she belched and sat down with her eyes shut tight.
‘You are quite disgusting,’ Isabella said, wafting her hand in front of her.
Old Man Wood passed the mug to Archie. ‘A couple of mouthfuls should do it,’ he said, his eyes raised in earnest. Archie did as the old man recommended and passed it on to Isabella, who very reluctantly and only after popping in a finger and licking it, took a couple of small sips.
‘Come on, Bells,’ Daisy said. ‘That’s hardly going to work.’
‘Just because I’m not as greedy as you,’ Isabella said. She fixed her sister’s eye and drained the glass. ‘Urrrggh!’ she cried, pulling a face as Daisy laughed.
‘Disgusting ... pheteucx!’ Her eyes watered and instantly it felt as if her eyeballs were walloping about her head like a pinball.
As their brains fizzed and their ears crackled and eyes spun, Old Man Wood explained how it worked. ‘When you concentrate on something you’ll find there’s a difference. But when you concentrate an awful lot, that’s when it starts happening; you’ll see and hear things ... well, you’ll find out soon enough. Don’t worry,’ he reassured them, ‘you won’t whoosh up into the air or grow a moustache or anything like that.’
He led them out into the courtyard where sunlight was attempting, rather sadly, to break through the thick white fog coming up from the valley. ‘Now, littluns,’ he said, smiling, ‘somewhere around this courtyard, according to my old friend, Bethedi, there’s a sign on a wall or a stone on the floor. It’ll tell us what to do.’
‘What sort of sign?’ Archie asked.
Old Man Wood shook his head. ‘If I knew, young man, I reckon I would tell you. Perhaps it’s like peculiar writing you find on walls in the towns ...?’
‘Graffiti?’
Old Man Wood appeared confused. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it could be graff ... whatever that is. But you’ll need to look carefully – it could be anywhere. Now, for apples’ sake concentrate, the lot of you.’
NINETY-NINE
DAISY’S DISCOVERY
Daisy’s search faltered immediately. Instead of looking for the writing or the sign outside, she had been distracted by a peculiar, strange, high-pitched squeaking sound coming from somewhere inside the house, which had been bothering her for a couple of days. She went back in to the house to investigate and ended up back in the kitchen, rooting through the condiment jars and flour pots and herbs. Eventually she honed it down to one particular area and, now concentrating at her utmost, she could see the offenders through the cupboard door.
She ran back outside. ‘Old Man Wood, you’d better come and check this out.’
Soon the others joined her. And even though Daisy’s hearing was a hundred times greater than theirs, Archie and Isabella also heard a strange noise coming from within the cupboard.
‘It’s a trapped mouse,’ Archie volunteered.
Daisy shook her head. ‘Nah. Too many. Sounds like a whole load of them—’
‘An infestation?’ Archie said.
Daisy nodded knowingly as Isabella took two steps back. ‘Actually, by that scurrying noise, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a whole load of rats trapped behind the door waiting to rush out.’ She caught Archie’s eye and winked, trying not to laugh.
‘Yeah, definitely rats,’ Archie said, waiting for the explosion. ‘I hope they don’t bite too much.’
‘Oh, shut up, you two,’ Isabella said from behind the door. ‘Stop it! Stop being so childish. You know I hate them.’
The twins thought this was brilliantly funny. Daisy opened the door and both of them started shrieking, and then they howled with laughter at Isabella’s terrified reaction. ‘Oh chill your pants, Bells,’ Daisy said, pulling the sugar bowl out. ‘The noise is coming from this thing and I promise you there are no rats.’
Now that they were concentrating on the bowl, the high-pitched commotion grew. Daisy placed the bowl on the work surface as four pairs of eyes peered into it, baffled. For a while, all they could see were the granules of sugar. But it quickly became clear to Daisy that this wasn’t entirely sugar. She found herself looking at a mixture of microscopic toadstools that kept on morphing into granules like miniature Christmas lights in a random flashing sequence.
She stood up and took a step backwards. ‘Microscopic mushrooms,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ Isabella said. ‘Not sugar?’
‘Definitely not. Try one. I dare you.’
Isabella shook her head. ‘Fungi? Here?’ Isabella’s expression dropped. ‘What if it’s the Havilarian Toadstool Powder?!’ she cried.
‘The stuff that nearly killed you, Old Man Wood.’ Daisy added. ‘What do you think?’
Old Man Wood studied it, but it was hard to tell from his expression if he could even see the fungi let alone hear them. ‘If it is,’ he began, ‘it’s lethal stuff, especially to me.’ The children backed away as Old Man Wood shot off out of the room.
‘What’s it doing here?’ Daisy said. ‘It’s a very odd place to live—’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Archie cried. ‘It makes total sense.’
Daisy looked confused. ‘Go on, Sherlock. Reveal all.’
‘I added a spoon of sugar into the tea full of rum that sent Old Man Wood bonkers,’ he said. ‘At the time you two thought it was a bit funny.’
Old Man Wood returned wearing a pair of rubber gloves and holding a small glass jar.
‘Havilarian Toadstool Powder can’t escape from this old thing,’ Old Man Wood said. ‘Would one of you mind pouring it in? If it touches me, I might end up a bit like last time.’
Isabella carefully jigged the sugar and slowly the powder emptied from one container to the other. As Old Man Wood sealed the latch, the screeching howls from the tiny toadstools ceased.
The children exchanged glances. ‘But why only you, Old Man Wood?’ Archie asked.
‘Becaus
e the toadstools only poison those from the Garden of Eden, that’s why,’ the old man replied. ‘Which reminds me – if we ever get there, the only way to dispose of these horrible things is in the River of Life.’
Old Man Wood slipped the jar into his coat pocket.
‘You sure you don’t want me to take it?’ Archie said. ‘What if you fall and it breaks?’
Old Man Wood smiled. ‘Need to be some strength for this to break. In any case, it’ll remind me to be a little bit more careful.’ He ushered the children out. ‘Come on, come on. We have the urgent matter of finding Blabisterberry Jelly.’
AFTER A FEW MINUTES, it became clear that what they were searching for was akin to finding a needle in a haystack. Hundreds of stones from the cobbles on the floor to those in the walls, and even the roof, bore some kind of writing or message. And worse still, many had messages on that were so old and scuffed that they took considerable deciphering.
“... NOT HERE. SORRY,” said a weathered grey stone that Daisy found. And then, as she neared Mrs. Pye’s flat, she found another three similar messages. Irritated, she opened the door of one of the shed doors beneath Mrs. Pye’s flat, let herself in and lay on the floor.
This old stable, used mainly by Old Man Wood, was crammed full of things to mend. Dotted on the floor and hanging off the walls were an assortment of old chairs and picture frames and lamps and parts of old bicycles and even an old piano, its ivories removed. To Daisy’s left sat a colourful carpet with a big hole in the middle and, to her right, a doll she recognised from her childhood that was missing an arm, a leg, and an eye.
Daisy rather liked it in here and sat down among the odds and ends as the dappled daylight filtered in through the dirty, cobweb-filled windows. For a minute the quiet allowed her to empty her mind. She closed her eyes, oblivious to the cacophony of new sounds and images around her. She breathed deeply and for a while sleep called her.
Suddenly she heard a familiar kind of noise, which was neither a squeak nor anything unusual. She roused herself. Perhaps the wind had pushed the door, making it groan. But as she thought about it, she realised there was no wind only the gently swirling cloud down in the valley swamping the vale.
She listened again and heard a voice. A soft boy’s voice talking slowly, whispering and ... weeping. It wasn’t Archie and it certainly wasn’t Old Man Wood. She listened harder and realised the words were coming from Mrs. Pye’s flat directly above her.
Then she heard, unmistakably, Mrs. Pye’s distinctive tones.
Who the heck was it?
Quietly, Daisy slipped out of the mending room, ran down the courtyard and bounded up the stone stairs on her toes, barely making a sound. At the top, she prised open the door to Mrs. Pye’s apartment, slipped inside, tiptoed down the narrow, dark corridor and stopped outside Mrs. Pye’s bedroom door.
She caught her breath, her senses on high alert. She listened. Nothing. Just muffled sounds, like ... sobs, crying. Daisy desperately wanted to look inside but something told her not to. She stared hard at the door as if willing it to move aside. Then, much to her astonishment, she found herself seeing right through the wooden door, as though she had somehow opened up a large porthole of glass. And the harder she stared, the clearer the image.
There, in front of her, was the large figure of Mrs. Pye sitting on the bed with her eyes closed and a wide grimacey-smile traced across her face, a smaller figure folded into her bosom.
Astonished, yet intrigued, and nervous that she was seeing things, Daisy tip-toed down the passageway and, as her concentration moved from seeing to keeping quiet, she found herself staring at the dark magnolia-coloured wall. When she regained her concentration, the see-through portal reappeared and she found herself looking at a boy. A boy she’d definitely seen before. But who was it?
Suddenly it came to her, though it made no sense. It looked like the boy from the TV, the boy who survived the storm, the miracle child, the boy otherwise known as ... Kemp.
KEMP!
She swore, under her breath. What was he doing here! Her greatest enemy ... here ... with Mrs. Pye ... how? Had the world ended already? Was she in a parallel universe or something?
She watched them. For ages, they didn’t really say anything, just held each other as though they had just found each other and didn’t want to ever let go. Daisy noticed tears streaming down Kemp’s face and then she began to see the similarities.
The hair, the lips, the piggy blue eyes.
Daisy was suddenly filled with a strange prickly sensation and she shuddered as she remembered what Archie had told her about Kemp losing his mother when he was a baby. And she recalled Old Man Wood’s story of how he had found Mrs. Pye in the hills, as near to dead as you could get, mangled and scarred with no memory.
The whole truth of the matter came to her: Kemp and Kemp’s mother, Mrs. Pye. And at that moment, as she watched the boy through the wall, her heart pinched and ached for him.
And for the first time in her life, Daisy de Lowe felt ashamed of her behaviour towards Kemp. This sad boy, who hadn’t had the best of luck in life, a boy who’d never known his mother or father, a boy they’d pushed aside and turned into a monster.
Daisy shook her head as she moved down the corridor. How did Kemp get here? After all Eden Cottage was stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Furthermore, wasn’t Kemp in hospital? He had to be, unless the TV interview had been pre-recorded. Maybe he found out and escaped? But it was miles and miles over terrible flooding.
It didn’t make sense. But, then again, nothing made sense any more.
Daisy crept along, deep in thought. A shiver worked up her spine, a feeling as if something was watching her. She shook it out.
At the top of the stone staircase she noticed a strange overcoat hanging on the wall.
She looked back down the corridor. Kemp’s coat? No, too big, but then again, too small for the voluptuous figure of Mrs. Pye. Perhaps it had been there all along, for years? Perhaps, Mrs. Pye had left it there as a reminder that she might one day find a man in her life?
Daisy lent in and smelled the fabric. Old, like moths and soot and peat combined, she thought. She sniffed again. More like the ash that drifted about when Dad cleaned the fires. She fingered the fabric, noting how intricately the patterns ran together, and as she did she heard a soft, deep voice, almost purring. Her arms freckled with goose bumps.
Daisy wondered if she should put it on, to warm her up. All she had to do was reverse into it.
She turned around and put her right arm behind her, searching for the hole that led down the arm of the coat. There. She thrust her arm quickly down into the coat and, as she did, she gasped.
An intense cold rush sped into her arm, like icy treacle. She moaned. It felt so cold, but yet so warm and electrifying.
She twisted her body around as if to push her other arm in when the door flew open.
In front of her stood Kemp. His mouth open.
Daisy, in shock, let the left arm of the coat swing.
‘Daisy,’ he said, moving quickly towards her. ‘I know you generally do the opposite of anything I say, but I absolutely urge you, in fact I’m begging you, not to put that coat on.’
Daisy shrugged and looked him up and down. Kemp had lost weight and his baldness made him different; less childish, she thought, as a curious tingle ran through her. ‘Give me two good reasons,’ she said.
‘Please don’t,’ Kemp said. ‘For once in your life, just believe me,’ he said. ‘You really don’t want to do it.’
Daisy felt for the other arm-hole. ‘That’s not even one reason,’ she said, as she slid her arm into the coat. She closed her eyes as the freezing syrupy feeling swam through her arms and into her chest.
‘Don’t do it,’ Kemp said, his voice betraying his worry. ‘Get out of there, Daisy. Get out of there NOW!’
But already Daisy’s eyes were shutting, and the sound of a man’s laughter filled her ears.
ONE HUNDRED
BAD
NEWS FROM AMERICA
‘It’s impossible, sir,’ Dickinson said. ‘Visibility is down to no more than a couple of metres.’
The radio crackled back. ‘I don’t bleedin’ care if you can’t see your effing noses, you’re going to get up there and then back here, with or without those children.’ Stone’s voice calmed down. ‘Dickinson, I need to know. And fast. We can’t risk the helicopters. You’re on your own. Do you copy?’
Dickinson shrugged. ‘All I was saying, sir, is that we will not be able to proceed at the speed we anticipated.’
‘What the hell do they train you for?’ Stone yelled down the radio. ‘Sunning yourselves? It’s not a bloody holiday.’
Dickinson turned to the unit. ‘You heard the man.’ He pulled out some instruments from his rucksack. ‘We need to move.’ He delved into his bag. ‘Compass, map, heat sensors. Everyone should have the same, if you haven’t, I need to know. Understand? It’s like semolina out there and if you get lost don’t expect us to come looking for you.’
Dickinson had served in four tours: Afghanistan, Syria, the Balkans and Iraq. But never had he encountered conditions like this. A white-out as thick as custard spread out over a wasted, destroyed landscape. It gave him the collywobbles just thinking about it. Going in blind. Utterly devoid of sight. At least, he reasoned, there wouldn’t be land-mines or IEDs or sniper fire to worry about, only bogs and brambles and random pools.
He never imagined he’d be plucking three children out of a remote hillside cottage in the midst of a global meltdown.
The country was already out of control. In places, reports said that the army were shooting anyone suspected of having Ebora. Elsewhere, the dead were laid out on the doorsteps every morning for trucks to collect and dumped in huge mass graves, exactly as they’d done at the time of the Black Death.
The difference being that this was viral, and back then it was bacterial. Both were horrible, nasty, silent killers. Both terrifying, unknown enemies.
