B00DW1DUQA EBOK (9 page)

‘Still hungry?’ his mother asked. ‘It seems we never feed you enough these days.’

Finn shrugged. His mother didn’t look suspicious or angry. Still, it was hard to tell what adults were really thinking. If his parents knew they were hiding Diane from the Ironclads they would be furious. Worse than furious. He wanted to tell them, and nearly had on several occasions, but then Diane might be put in danger.

‘I’m playing with Connor. We said we’d bring food to eat. So we can stay out all day.’

‘Off you go then. And be careful not to cut yourself again. Come straight back if you do.’

He’d tried to hide the wound on his palm but his mother had noticed it when they were eating and had made him wash it again under the tap. He had invented a story about cutting it while clambering over an old gate. He just hoped his parents didn’t talk to Connor’s and realise they had identical scars.

‘I will. Bye!’ He sprinted past his mother, bread tucked under his arm.

‘Hey, not so quick, Finn!’ she called after him.

‘What is it?’

His mother caught up with him and kissed him on top of the head. She didn’t have to bend down much any more.

Finn sighed and turned to run off.

‘And make sure you’re home before dark,’ his mother called after him.

‘I promise.’

Outside, Finn fished the ring out of his pocket and wound it onto his finger. A groove spiralled up his skin, now, that it fitted into. It didn’t throb any more. He grabbed his stick from where he’d left it last night, leaning on the hedge next to the garden gate. Now he was ready to meet Connor and Diane.

His stick was gently curved. He had carved a series of notches along it, one for each kill. He had twenty-two now. Diane only had eight or nine but Connor had over thirty. Their latest game was one of mass-murder. Connor had started it a few days earlier, after explaining that butterflies were destroying his father’s cabbage crop.

‘It’s the white ones that do the damage. My father said he’d pay me for each one I kill.’

At first Connor had prowled his farm, creeping up on butterflies and attempting to smash them to death with his stick before they skipped away. Soon all three of them were playing the game. They ranged across the valley in search of white butterflies to bludgeon. Every time you got one you carved another notch onto your stick.

They made their way, now, along narrow woodland paths through patches of nettles and vast banks of brambles. A light drizzle was falling outside the woods but the trees kept if off them, except for the occasional fat
blip
of water falling from the high branches to hit one of them on the head.

They peered around for the glorious sight of a shimmering, white butterfly. Whoever spotted it first was allowed the kill, that was the rule. You had to run after it, keeping it in sight but not getting too close, waiting for it to settle. There was an art to it. Sometimes the butterflies escaped, flitting across uncrossable oceans of undergrowth. Sometimes you thought you had them but they fluttered away even as you swung your stick down at them. But sometimes, gloriously, you got one, striking it before it could move, reducing it to twitching tatters of paper embedded in the ground.

‘There’s one!’

Connor sprinted down the path, attention focused on a white butterfly circling in front of him. Finn ran after him with Diane walking along behind. The butterfly appeared to know it was being hunted. It stopped occasionally, as if for a rest, but skittered on whenever Connor drew close. It veered off the path, flying high up over mountain ranges of fern and bramble. Connor, not stopping, lunged into the thick undergrowth, beating a new path through the bushes with his stick. Finn soon lost sight of him.

‘You’ll never catch it!’ Finn shouted. ‘Let’s find another, Conn.’

‘No! It’ll have to stop soon.’ Connor already sounded distant, his voice muffled. ‘Come on!’

Diane came to stand next to him.

‘He doesn’t give up does he?’

Finn shrugged. ‘Come on. Let’s follow him.’

Finn and Diane took the path Connor had trampled through the undergrowth. They soon caught up as he felled the ferns in front of him with wide sweeps of his stick.

‘It’s gone, Connor. Let’s find another.’

‘A bit farther,’ said Connor. ‘I just saw it, not far ahead.’

They cut their way on through the undergrowth. Finn was hot from all the running but at the same time his arms were icy cold from the wet ferns. It was impossible to know where they were or which way they were going; the walls of green around them were too high to see over. Finn was just about to shout that he was turning back when Connor called from up ahead.

‘Hey, look where we are!’

Finn caught him up. They had come to the edge of the bushes at last. A clearing stood before them. The sight was immediately familiar. The walls of trees. The log. It made sense; they weren’t that far from the secret path he and Connor had found when they’d tracked down Diane. Still, it felt suddenly like a bad omen. The place was forever associated with the appearance of Ironclads in Finn’s mind.

‘Any sign of the butterfly?’ asked Diane, catching them up.

‘No. It’s gone,’ said Finn. He stepped past Connor into the glade.

‘Finn! Look!’ said Connor.

Over on the old log there
was
a butterfly. But not the small, white one they had pursued. This one was much larger, the size of one of Finn’s hands. Its wings, spread wide to the sun, were bright red with purple spots for eyes. Finn had never seen such a large, dazzling creature in his whole life.

‘Quiet,’ said Connor. ‘I’m going to get it. This one’s worth two notches at least.’

‘Connor, you can’t,’ said Finn. ‘It’s not one of the whites. It isn’t harming anyone. I mean it’s … it’s beautiful.’

But Connor crept towards the butterfly, stick held up high in the air ready to swing. The butterfly’s wings twitched closed and open once or twice but it didn’t move. It was basking, Finn could see, in a patch of warm sunlight.

‘Connor, let’s leave it.’

Connor ignored him. Finn glanced at Diane, who frowned and looked puzzled but didn’t move.

With a whoop, clapping his hands, Finn darted forwards towards Connor, hoping to scare the butterfly into flight. At the same moment, Connor brought his stick down with a
thwack
onto the log. The butterfly was already moving but Connor caught its wing, knocking it back to the ground. He scrambled after it, bashing at it again and again. Finn tried to stop him but Connor struck the butterfly properly, pinning it down, its wings flapping uselessly. A few more blows and the flapping stopped.

‘You shouldn’t have done that Connor. That wasn’t part of the game.’

Connor turned to look at them, his eyes wide with triumph. He was about to reply when a sound blared out through the trees around them. The sound of a horn being blown. Connor’s words died in his mouth.

‘What’s that?’ asked Finn. It was familiar. It sounded like some wounded, angry animal, but there was a metallic edge to it too. It made his spine shimmy to hear it.

‘Don’t know,’ said Connor.

‘It’s the Ironclads,’ said Diane, looking at the two of them in open alarm. ‘They’ve found me.’

‘What’s this, boy? Give it to me.’

He’d been twisting Diane’s ring around and around on his finger, lost in his memories. The master let him out of the engine twice a day, morning and evening. He liked to sit where he couldn’t see the engine or the Ironclads and pretend, for a few moments, he was free, even though his ankle was still shackled to the machine by the chain.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Finn. ‘It’s worthless, it’s just wire.’ He unscrewed the silver spiral over the joint in his finger, to hide it back in his pocket. It came off much more easily now.

Master Whelm stood over him, his mouth twisting as if he was trying to smile but didn’t know how. The Ironclads sat nearby, around a fire, watching what was about to happen. They had taken their helmets and masks off and the skin of their unfamiliar faces was baby-pink. With a kick, the master sent Finn’s food, a bowl of potatoes and greasy stew, spilling over the grass. Finn hadn’t eaten any of it, but he wasn’t hungry anyway.

‘Give it to me,’ said the master, holding out his hand.

‘It’s nothing. It just reminds me of home.’

‘Give it to me. Or I’ll cut your fingers off so you can’t wear it again.’

Finn studied the master, trying to decide if he was serious in his threat. He might be. But what use would a fingerless boy be in Engn? Finn thought about pretending to hand over the ring but punching the master in the face instead. If he caught him hard enough, like Connor had taught him to do, he might be able to knock him out for a moment. Grab the keys, unlock himself and be free. But, of course, there were the Ironclads, watching everything. They would never allow such a thing to happen. This idea was like the thousand other plans for his escape he’d come up with on their journey. It would never work.

Reluctantly, Finn handed the ring to the master.

‘Made it yourself, did you boy? Think you’re an artificer, do you?’

‘Yes. No.’

The master shook his head. ‘What are they going to do with you in Engn?’ He spoke loud enough for the Ironclads to overhear, enjoying his little scene. ‘Throw you into the furnaces within a week I’ll bet.’

The master stood very close. He looked angry about something, angry but bored at the same time.

‘The furnaces?’ asked Finn.

‘The furnaces?’ The master mimicked Finn’s voice. ‘Don’t you know what furnaces are?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘The furnaces are where they throw you when you’re no use to them any more. Or when they just want to get rid of you.’

The master held the silver ring to his eyes, examining it. Could he identify it? Did he know it had come from Diane’s village?

‘Means a lot to you, does it?’ he asked. ‘Did your mummy gave it you so you wouldn’t forget her?’

‘No. Please, it’s just wire. It’s nothing.’

The master smiled and dropped the ring to the floor. With his boot he ground it into the grit of the lane. His boots were studded black leather. Every day, one of the Ironclads polished them to a shine. When he moved his foot the ring was a flattened lozenge of wire on the ground.

‘Must have been a pretty piece, your mother, once,’ said the master. ‘Starve some weight off her and she’d just about do. I wonder how
grateful
she’d be if I went back and promised to look after you in Engn?’

Finn’s fist clenched. The master was certainly close enough for him to strike. But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He was goading Finn, trying to make him attack. Perhaps he wanted an excuse to punish Finn. Perhaps he was just bored. Whichever it was, Finn restrained himself. Not now. He would pick his own time to fight back.

‘I don’t know.’

The master considered Finn for a moment, then seemed to give up in his attempts. He laughed and strode away, shaking his head, saying something to the Ironclads that made them snort.

Finn stooped to prise the ring out of the ground with his fingernails. It was ruined, squashed flat. He tried for a time to work it back into shape but it was useless. He slipped it into his pocket. He looked around. The mountains were just hills, now, much farther apart as the valley opened out. The river, fed by all its side-streams, was a wide sheet of water, glass-still, barely moving, far too wide to bridge.

They had passed a village earlier that day. The master had demanded food and drink from the silent villagers, who had supplied them without arguing. Finn wondered if it was Diane’s village. If, even, Diane was somewhere here, hiding behind a building or a tree, peering out to grin at Finn. She would be able to remake his ring. But he’d seen no sign of her.

He lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. Where was she now? He thought about her often. Was she still alive? Had the Ironclads ever caught her, or was she still living wild somewhere, still running?

The moving engine snorted and sighed, heat blasting out from the fires within it. The shackle tethering Finn’s ankle pulled at his skin, cutting into him where his flesh was red and swollen. His lips were dry and cracked. At home, his mother would have given him beeswax to soothe them.

Finn put it all out of his mind and lost himself in a fantasy of finding Diane in the wilds somewhere, the two of them running through the woods and fields together, laughing and shouting. They plotted ways to bring down the walls and towers of Engn as they had promised. The people inside, stumbling from the ruins, blinking into the light…

‘Get up, boy.’

It was the master again. He kicked Finn in the side to stir him from his doze.

‘Your carriage awaits. We’ll travel until it’s dark.’

Not looking up, Finn made his way on hands and knees back into the moving engine.

*

No-one moved for a moment. On the ground, forgotten, the ruined butterfly’s wings lifted in the breeze.

‘I have to get away,’ said Diane. ‘I have to leave here now.’

‘But all your stuff,’ said Finn. ‘Your knife and blankets. It’s all still in the barn.’

‘I’ll manage without them. I’ll go up into the mountains. They might not follow me up there.’

‘No,’ said Finn. ‘You’re safe for a bit. They won’t find you here. We’ll go and fetch your stuff and bring it back.’

‘It’s not safe,’ said Diane.

‘Give us half an hour. You’ll have no chance without your knife.’

She said nothing. She looked terrified.

‘Come on, Conn. We’ll have to hurry,’ said Finn.

‘Make sure you’re not followed!’ she called after them as they ran out of the glade.

They raced through the woods to peer out over the valley. No Ironclads in sight. The water of the river sparkled as if nothing had changed. The breeze sent waves rippling through the golden fields of wheat in front of them.

‘We should split up,’ said Finn. ‘I’ll go through the woods. You cut across the farm. One of us will make it.’

‘Right,’ said Connor. ‘Bet I get there before you do!’ He scrambled down the slope, half-revealed tree-roots forming a series of rough steps. Finn turned and fled along the path, leaping over fallen logs and ducking under low branches.