Engn II

III

III“How do you know all this about earthquakes?” Finn asked his father as they walked together towards the Switch House. “We don't get earthquakes.”

“I just … know the old stories.”

Finn caught his father's momentary hesitation. “The old stories don't say anything about aftershocks and gathering at the Moot Hall,” said Finn. “They're just children's tales about mad giants throwing rocks at each other in underground caves. Fireside stories for winter nights.”

His father shrugged. “My grandfather told me other tales. Earthquakes used to be a lot more common in the old days. He always took some coaxing; he didn't like to talk about it. None of the old people did.”

“Why?” asked Diane, walking along behind them. “Back home, we all knew about them.”

“I think it was too painful,” said Finn's father. “People died. It's worse up here in the mountains. My grandfather wasn't afraid of anything but talk of earthquakes made him go pale. Winter was worst, he said. Big tremors could bring down avalanches right through the valley.”

Finn caught the glance of anxiety. His father didn't like to talk about that distant day; the day when Finn and Connor had survived an avalanche by climbing into the branches of an old oak tree. His father had admitted years later he'd been sure Finn was dead. That they were searching for bodies. A terrible day, but also the start of Finn's friendship with Connor. A terrible day and a good day. He thought back, trying to remember. Had there been an earthquake? A tremor to trigger the avalanche? He couldn't recall. It was all too long ago.

His father glanced across Finn, stroking his snowy beard as he did when he was thinking. Remembering those distant events. Some moments stayed with you however long you lived.

They found Mrs. Megrim on the ground at the foot of the spiral path up to the Switch House. The sight of her there, as they rounded the bend, took Finn to another memory. The day the old woman defied the ironclads and the master who led them. The day she slipped Finn the secret line-of-sight encryption key. She'd never really recovered from the injuries she'd sustained in performing that simple act, although it wasn't something she ever mentioned. She'd never walked straight again, limping awkwardly as if something inside her was no longer properly connected. And here she was once more, a heap of black on the ground.

“Don't just stand there gawping, boy,” she called, seeing Finn and the others approaching. “Help me up.”

Mrs. Megrim, at least, still treated him like a foolish child, chiding him constantly about the tasks he'd failed to complete to her satisfaction. Once he would have complained about it to anyone who would listen. Now he wouldn't have it any other way. Everything in the world could change, people could come and go, but Mrs. Megrim would still be there, telling him to stop dawdling like an i***t and hurry up.

“Sorry, Mrs. Megrim,” said Finn. Standing over her, he could see the pink of her scalp through her wispy grey hair. She wore her usual dark-as-night black coat, but underneath there were woollens of purple and even red. Something she had taken to since Rory's return. She had lost Tom, along with a large part of both her sons' childhoods, but she had set aside her loss that much. He understood, now, that her habitual black had been a symbol of mourning. A prolonged, drawn-out grief that would never truly end. It was hard to believe Mrs. Megrim had once been the wild, fun-loving girl his mother described. Except, every now and then, he caught a flash of her sly sense of humour and saw the woman she might have been if things had gone differently.

Finn squatted down to lever her back up to her feet, cradling her elbow. “What happened? Why are you sitting here on the ground?”

Mrs. Megrim couldn't keep the grimace of pain from her face as her body unbent. “I'm not sitting on the ground. I fell over when the earthquake hit. Can't you work anything out for yourself, boy?”

She stood unaided, a little wobbly, leaning heavily on her stick. The stick that had been waved at Finn many times in his childhood. These days she needed it much more. These days it was a crutch rather than a weapon. Mrs. Megrim didn't leave her cottage often and rarely made it up to the Switch House. When she did venture out, she crept along, her stick rather than her legs doing most of the forwards movement.

Now Rory ran the line-of-sight network, with occasional help from Finn and Shireen. None of them were immune from the endless stream of reminders and instructions she flashed their way: recollimate the lenses, maintain the logs, watch the bank wall. If anything, the frequency of the messages had increased since she took to staying indoors.

And she'd also finally shown them, one dark night when the rain hammered down on the Switch House roof and no sensible person was out and about, the other message log she'd kept all those years. The secret log of communications to both the wreckers and the other Switch House operators she trusted. And also, of all the messages she'd deliberately failed to route through to Engn over the years. It was clear, documented proof of her many crimes. Mrs. Megrim had shown it to them with pride, unfolding the log from swathes of white cotton as if it were some sacred text. Finn had run his finger down the list of encrypted messages from Matt Dobey, sent over many years. He'd wondered what they'd all said. Whether they'd been about him or Connor or Diane. It didn't matter now. Matt was long dead. Matt and his masters in Engn. The log was no longer updated. There had been no need to add any entries to it for three years.

“But I don't understand, Mrs. Megrim,” said Diane. “If you were here when the earthquake struck, you must have left home an hour ago. How did you know you'd be needed today? Did you know all this was going to happen?”

People still grumbled about Mrs. Megrim knowing everything, knowing their own business before they did. Even that she employed dark powers to uncover people's secrets or see into the future.

“No, no, girl, of course not. I'm not the witch Finn here says I am. I came because of the urgent message from Rory.”

“What message?” asked Finn. “What did he want?”

“I haven't the faintest idea, have I? He told me to come to the Switch House, and this is as far as I got before the ground took it upon itself to start throwing me around.”

Finn held his arm out to her, offering his support. Once she would have refused such an indignity. Now, with only a hmmph, she hooked her arm through his and they set off together, moving slowly.

The Switch House didn't appear to have been harmed by the earthquake. They climbed the spiral path and knocked three times on the door: the signal to the operator to shield their eyes from the light. This time it was unnecessary. Before they touched the door handle, Rory burst out. Behind him, a white incandescent bulb flickered away. A bulb Finn had never seen used in all the years he'd been coming there.

“Excellent, you're all here,” said Rory, as if he'd arranged the whole thing. He looked warily around and back down the path as if afraid more people would be turning up. “You weren't harmed when the earth shook?”

“Obviously not, or we wouldn't be here, would we?” said Mrs. Megrim to her remaining son. “Now, tell us what you've dragged us all the way up here for.”

“Come inside,” said Rory. “I'll show you.”

Badger snuffled around in the grass while the rest of them filed inside. In the bright light of the bulb, the Switch House looked smaller than usual. Strange to think of all the hours and days Finn had spent in the little square room. But of course, it wasn't just a room. In a way, the whole valley was in there. The valley and the wider world beyond, everything brought there on flickering beams of light.

It was immediately obvious none of the 'scopes were in use at the moment. Some were canted at wild angles, as if awaiting messages from up in the sky. Other tripods had crashed to the ground, where they lay in tangled heaps. His father was right; it would take days to get the connections up and down the valley working again.

“Well,” said Mrs. Megrim. “I leave the place for one day and look at the mess you make of it.”

Rory paid his mother no attention. He shut the door and turned to face them all. He looked troubled. In his hand, he held a scroll of paper, a line-of-sight message, which he handed to Mrs. Megrim. Silence filled the room while she studied it. An unidentified sense of dread gripped Finn as he watched the deepening frown on her old face.

“What is it?” he asked at last. “What does it say?”

Mrs. Megrim held it out for them to see.

“But it's empty,” said Finn's father. “It doesn't say anything. I don't see what the fuss is about.”

“It's a timing signal,” said Finn. “See, it has the header with all the sender information on it.”

“So? We get timing signals like that every day.”

“We get timing signals every day, but never like this one,” said Finn. “We haven't had one of these for three years now. Look at the address. See where it's come from.”

Understanding dawned on his father's face. He grasped what the rest of them had already seen. “1A11. That's Engn?”

“It is,” said Mrs. Megrim. “This is a master timing signal, sent from the central clock. Used to get one first thing every day. Strange this should come through on the same day the quake struck. At almost the same moment.” She took the sheet of paper again and examined it, holding it up to the light as if that would make it reveal its secrets. “This is the first we've had?”

“I would have mentioned it if there'd been others,” said Rory.

“Did you reply? Did you route it to anyone else?”

Rory shook his head. “Didn't get chance. I sent you a message and then sat here trying to think what to do. Then the earthquake struck and knocked all the 'scopes out.”

“So Engn is working again,” said Finn. “The rumours are true.”

“We don't know that,” said Diane. “You know better than most messages can be intercepted or altered. All we know is someone has sent a message claiming to be from Engn. It could be from anywhere along the line.”

Mrs. Megrim shook her head. “It's too good a fake. It's exactly like the ones they used to send.”

“It still might be from someone who knows what they used to look like,” said Diane. “Any Switch House operator could have produced it.”

Finn wanted to believe Diane, but dread had gripped him and wouldn't let go. He had taken these early morning messages often enough in the past. He stood and studied the square of paper for long moments, looking for some mistake in the wording, some clue it was a fake. But there was nothing.

“Engn was levelled,” said his father. “We saw it. This is some joke, some fake. It's not important. We need to get to the Moot Hall; another tremor could hit at any moment.”

Rory shook his head. “You all go. I'll start getting these 'scopes lined up. We're going to need to know what's going on elsewhere.”

“Was there anything from down the valley?” Diane asked. “From home?”

“I'm sorry,” said Rory. “As soon as it hit, we lost everything. But I'll send word as soon as I hear anything, I promise.”

“Chances are they'll be fine,” said Mrs. Megrim. “It hasn't brought any houses down here.”

Diane nodded but looked doubtful.

“We'll stay and help,” said Finn. “Get all these 'scopes lined up again.”

Rory picked up the toppled tripods. “No. I could do with you at the Moot House. We need to get that 'scope lined up so I can communicate with everyone there. Then I can start directing you around the valley to fix the repeater mirrors. Okay?”

“And what about the timing message?” said Finn. “What are we going to do with that?”

“Hand it here,” said Mrs. Megrim. “I'll burn it. There's no need to go worrying folks, is there? Probably someone's idea of a jest.”

She didn't look like she thought it was funny, though, as Finn handed her the message.

A crowd of people had already gathering at the Moot House. Some were well prepared, clutching blankets and baskets of food as if they'd been secretly expecting an earthquake all along. Other stood shivering in thin night clothes, their eyes wide. The sun was fully risen over the mountaintops now, but it brought no heat with it.

It was alarming to see everyone in this state. Finn knew each one of them, of course. They'd been there every day of his life in the valley. He'd joined in with their celebrations as babies were born or the old year turned into the new. He'd mourned with them at each loss of a loved one. He'd laughed along with them at summer feasts and winter games. Many of them had been there the day of the avalanche, joining in with the search for him and Connor. They would help each other in the days to come. They would survive this together.

Flane, the lengthsman, ticked off the names of each new arrival. Once, perhaps, Connor's father would have assumed the role, coordinating everyone and telling them what to do and where to go. But not anymore: he had left the valley two or more years ago and hadn't been seen since. Lost in grief for Connor, it was said. Now there was no king in the valley. The name had only ever been used in jest, nothing more than an echo of older days, but at times like this people needed someone to turn to for direction. It was a role Flane, and also Finn's parents, often played now.

More people arrived, and Finn saw not everyone had escaped unscathed. There was Elidh the weaver with a bandage wrapped crudely about her head, blood already soaking through. Alongside her, Matilda from the old forge. In her eyes was a look of disbelief Finn recognized. He'd seen it the day Engn had come down, and often enough before that. A gaze into an unseen distance.

Flane went to meet them, enfolding Matilda in one of his powerful arms and lending support to Elidh. Meanwhile, Finn and Diane helped Mrs. Megrim climb the short set of wooden steps into the Moot Hall. It was already busy in there, people marking out where they would sleep with blankets on the ground, even erecting makeshift walls out of sheets. Whole families were setting up in corners. It reminded Finn a little of the mines of Engn; the way they'd pegged out their squares of cloth to claim their little patch of ground. Except, here people were smiling and laughing, despite everything. Helping each other, sharing what they had. For the youngest among them, the whole thing was a wonderful adventure. Small boys and girls jumped around, delighted at the break from their usual routine.

While Diane worked on the Moot Hall's line-of-sight 'scope, Finn and his father went back outside to see what needed to be done, who needed help to make it to the hall. The woods flanking the mountainside blazed with golden light, a mist drifting off them as if they were on fire. Here and there, a gap had opened in the dense canopy where trees had toppled over in the earthquake. Shielding his eyes, Finn gazed up the slope, picking out the lip of rock where, once, he and Connor had lain and looked down. The day the moving engine had first arrived. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

His mother, Shireen, and Nathaniel arrived together, all uninjured. Finn and his father went to meet them, hugging them close. It struck Finn, as it always did, how thin his mother felt in his grasp these days.

“You managed to get out of the cottage?” she asked.

“We're both fine,” said Finn. “A few things smashed in the house. How about you?”

“Tiles down, a couple of broken plates,” said his mother. “Nothing that can't be mended.”

“Same at ours,” said Shireen. “Nathaniel's a light sleeper. We were already getting out when the quake hit fully. A chimney pot crashed to the ground near us, that was all.”

Shireen held Nathaniel's hand tight in hers. In many ways Nathaniel was still getting used to his new life, still getting over the delusions of his years in Engn. His face had the haunted expression it often bore, especially when he was outside. He'd found the wide expanses of the great grass plain deeply unsettling on the trek across. He much preferred the valley, with its high mountains like towering natural walls. Still, he preferred to stay indoors if he could.

“Put your stuff next to ours,” said Finn. “There's plenty of room. We can sit and talk later.”

Nathaniel squeezed Finn's arm in thanks. He and Shireen climbed the stairs to go inside.

“It looks like everyone is here,” said Finn to Flane, looking around.

“Everyone apart from Connor's mother up at the farm.”

“Oh, she wouldn't come,” said Finn's mother. “You know she never leaves her room.”

“Even so,” said Flane, “we should check on her. In the summer, there'd be a few laborers helping out on the farm, but not this time of year.”

“I'll go up and see if she's okay,” said Finn. He had never, in fact, visited Connor's childhood home. Had never spoken to Connor's mother or even seen her. He'd often wanted to. Wanted to tell her everything that had happened at Engn, tell her in his own words what wonderful things Connor had done. There were matters that still puzzled him, too. Connor had risen through the ranks of the masters with such ease to become the Director's apprentice. More than one person had mentioned Connor's contacts at Engn, but no one had explained what they were. Now only his mother could shed any light. But she, bedridden and reclusive, saw no one.

A look passed between his parents as they considered the wisdom of Finn's plan.

“I'll go,” said his mother. “She might talk to me.”

“No,” said Finn. “You're needed here. And I can get her 'scope lined up while I'm there.”

His father studied him for a moment, then nodded his head in assent.

Back inside the hall, Finn found Diane helping a young family with baby twins set up their temporary home. He touched her lightly on the arm. “I'm going to check on Connor's mother. Want to come?”

Diane brushed a stray curl of hair from her eyes. “There's a lot to do here. I'd best stay and help. Where's Badger?”

“Helping to greet everyone who arrives. She's having a wonderful time.”

Finn and Diane embraced, holding on to each other, absorbing the welcome reassurance of each other. He was still shaking slightly, shaking as the valley had shaken, but Diane's closeness calmed him.

“Take care up there,” she said. “You know what they say about the farmhouse. It's already half falling down. Don't go inside if it looks dangerous.”

“I promise,” said Finn. He held onto her for a moment more, then turned to leave.

He walked between high stone buildings into the central courtyard of the farm. The place was a sea of mud. Crumbling wooden carts sagged in corners, never to move again. Stable doors gaped, their inhabitants long gone. Grass and one or two small saplings sprouted out of cracks in the stonework. There was a smell of damp and decay and a sullen, watchful silence about the whole place.

Once the place would have rung with the noises of activity: the stamp and bellow of the cattle, the rattle and clank of the machinery, the cries and laughs of the hands who worked the land. Now nothing moved, except for the odd scrap of rusting metal, lifted briefly back into life by the gusting wind.

Finn looked back at the track he'd taken across the fields up to Three Tree Hill. He could see a lot of the valley, all the familiar buildings and trees and lanes. Yet it was all different from the unusual perspective, as if someone had come along and jumbled everything around. Or as if he had never really known his home properly. Strange to think he didn't know the farm. He and Connor had roamed the whole valley in a childhood that had seemed, at the time, unending. They knew each tree, path, pool, bush, bank. Yet, every night, Connor had returned here, to a place Finn was never allowed to enter.

He had some idea why. Connor's parents fought – over what Finn didn't know – but enough to make Connor wary of bringing back friends. Shireen had mentioned it more than once. She'd come to read to Connor's mother when she was young and, without spelling it out, gave the clear impression Connor's home had never been very happy.

The arched door of the farmhouse in front of him was limed with green. This close, he could discern a diagonal crack running right up the wall, feeling its way through the stones. It reached from the floor up to the second story. Was it fresh damage, a wound opened by the earthquake, or had it been there for years? Was it safe to step inside this decaying old building? It must have been grand once. Window frames and lintels were finely carved, cut into the flowing shapes of animals and birds. But all was weathered now, all worn away, fine features blurred. The eroded heads of beasts adorned the door post, but it was impossible to tell what the carver had intended them to be.

Finn knocked and then, when no one replied, pushed the door open. He expected it to creak and groan, but it merely budged forwards a few inches then stopped, wedged against something on the floor. From inside, a damp-smelling darkness breathed out at him. There was no sound save for the slow, patient ticking of a distant clock. Someone had obviously been there recently. He called out again, as loudly as he could, but there was still no reply. Was Connor's mother dead? Knocked over or crushed in the earthquake? He suddenly didn't want to go inside. But he had no choice. He couldn't go back and say he hadn't looked.

Barging the door a little wider with his shoulder, he stepped forwards into the waiting darkness.