Engn

IX-2

“I'll kill him. If I thought he was responsible for anyone being taken…” He raised his spanner like an axe, ready to charge off and bludgeon Matt to death there and then. “Finn, you wait here.”

His father strode off across the fields, heading for the gate and the lane beyond it, the thresher forgotten. Turnpike Cottage wasn't far away.

Finn raced after him. Not quite believing what he was doing, he ran around to block his father's way.

“No. We have to be careful.”

“To hell with being careful! I'll kill him.”

“But if anything happens to him the ironclads will suspect. They'll come here.”

“He's not going to get away with this.”

Finn was nearly as tall as his father now, although still stick-thin in comparison. Their faces were close together. Finn spoke quietly, almost whispering, although there was no one around to hear.

“No, but I've been thinking. There's a way to stop him without attracting any attention.”

His father was breathing deeply, trying to control his anger. Finn marvelled at the way his father, his own father, was listening to his advice.

“If anything were to happen to you, Finn, I couldn't live with it.”

“That's why we have to be careful.”

His father sighed. “You are the clever one, Finn. He got that right at least. You're your mother's son. Tell me.”

“Let's have some more cider.”

His father nodded, his chest still heaving. They returned to the threshing machine and sat with their backs against it. The metal was warm in the glow of the spring sun. They passed the drink between them. The cider soon made Finn feel lightheaded and detached, as if he wasn't really there in the field with his father, planning Matt's fate.

“The thing is,” began Finn, “Matt's a useless lengthsman.” The words were slippery. He tried to concentrate. “You know it. Everyone knows it. Without help he couldn't do his job properly. Without your help. The lanes would become rutted, the cattle would escape, the drainage channels would silt up, and the electricity supply would fail.”

“You're suggesting I stop helping him.”

“Exactly! You can just say you're busy. I mean, you are busy. Sooner or later everything will fall apart and the village won't put up with it. They'll have to find a new lengthsman. Matt will be turned out of Turnpike Cottage and then he can't send any more messages to Engn.”

His father was quiet for a while. Finn began to worry he'd spoken out of turn, that his father was angry. The implication of his words was clear. By helping Matt all these years, his father had allowed the lengthsman to keep his position and carry on making all his reports to Engn.

When his father finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I can see the sense of it. I'll have to be canny, cut down slowly the help I give him. It'll take time to work, Finn, and I won't wait forever.”

“I'll intercept any messages he sends from now on.”

His father nodded, frowning. “Okay.”

They sat together there for some time, finishing the cider. Another secret pact, thought Finn. He wondered how many more there would be.

For two or three weeks, nothing happened. Finn began to think his father had changed his mind. Twice he caught his parents in hushed, earnest conversation when he came into the room. Perhaps they'd decided to do nothing after all.

But, one morning, late for the Switch House, Finn dashed out into the garden and bundled straight into Matt coming up the path, axe and shovel over his shoulder.

“Whoa, young man. Late again? Don't want to get into trouble with Mrs. Megrim, eh?”

“No.”

Finn dashed past, but when he was out of the garden he stopped and peered around the stone wall to see what happened.

His father was at the door now, talking to Matt. Finn couldn't hear their words. His father nodded once or twice with his head, pointing up the valley. They conversed for perhaps a minute. Finally, Matt walked back down the garden path, alone.

Finn took off a boot, pretending to knock stones from it on the wall. Matt swept past him. For once, the lengthsman didn't smile, didn't say anything. Staring at his boot as he tied it, Finn grinned to himself.

Four months later, Finn stood outside the Moot Hall, leaning against the weathered, stone-like wood of one of the pillars. Muffled murmurs and the occasional raised shout came from inside. He could make out nothing of what was being said. They'd been arguing for nearly an hour.

He looked up at the wooded slopes of the valley, the trees like frozen explosions of leaves. He remembered the day he and Connor had watched the ironclads through the telescope. They'd never seen the moving engine again. He wondered what had happened to it.

Connor's father, the Baron, burst suddenly out of the hall, a babble of noise escaping with him. He looked furious. He saw Finn, thought about ignoring him, then stopped. They hadn't spoken since the day Connor had been taken.

“Says it's all our fault if the power fails and the carts get stuck. Our fault!”

Finn didn't know what to say. He wanted very much to tell the Baron all about the messages, about what Matt had really done. But, of course, he couldn't.

He wanted to explain about his own guilt, too. Because the truth, the terrible truth he had admitted to no one, was that Finn was secretly pleased Connor had been taken. Not that he didn't miss his friend every day. But Connor being taken made it even less likely he would be. Engn had to leave some behind and there was really only him left now. And the truth was, Connor would be able to survive in Engn much better than Finn could. Connor was strong; he could fight; he could look after himself. People naturally did what he said; he was his father's son. Finn wasn't any of those things. Connor just might be able to destroy Engn as they'd vowed, but Finn knew he would never be able to. He'd always known it, even that day by the river with Diane. He would never be brave or clever or strong enough. It was better that Connor had been taken.

He wanted to say all this but could not.

“What do you think they'll decide about Matt?” he asked.

“Oh, they'll kick him out. They just want to argue about it some more rather than getting on with it. But I'm not staying to be told I don't know how to run an estate.”

With a scowl and a shake of his head, he turned to walk away from the Moot Hall.

“I'm sorry about Connor,” Finn shouted after him. “He was my friend,” he added uselessly.

The Baron stopped and half turned. He nodded his head, then strode off towards his farm.

It was another half hour before the moot ended. Matt was the first to leave. Once again, he didn't speak to Finn as he brushed past.

It was a glorious summer that year, warm without being too hot, rain falling at night to keep the fields green and lush. Once, the sky beyond the mountains blazed vivid scarlet, the glow remaining visible long after the sun had set. People said they'd heard muffled booms in the night, felt their walls shake and skip. Some whispered it was Engn, burning. People looked nervous, afraid of what it might mean. Finn, secretly, was delighted. He wondered about Connor. The glow was there the following night, too, but by the third evening it had gone. Some were convinced Engn had been destroyed. They got on with their lives. No more ironclads came to the valley.

Now that the encrypted messages from Turnpike Cottage had ceased, Finn enjoyed working at the Switch House more and more. He began to take interest in the mundane communications that flashed up and down the valley, the petty gossip that had once so bored him. He and Mrs. Megrim shared many jokes, a raised eyebrow in the gloom enough to make them both snigger with laughter.

Best of all was Badger. His parents had given her to him a few months back.

“Finn, we've got a surprise for you,” his mother said one evening. “She's still just a puppy but she'll need lots of walks. You can take her up into the woods with you.” She was a bouncy, black-and-white dog, all tongue and paws, her fur as soft as an owl's feathers.

Badger ran everywhere at full tilt. Sometimes, when they were out in the woods, he didn't see her for minutes at a time. She was just a rustle of undergrowth off in the distance, a twitch of ferns. But she always came back to him, tongue lolling. Together they visited all the paths and clearings he and Connor had once known so well. It felt as though he was discovering them all afresh, as if they were different woods to those he had played in as a boy. They would walk past the place by the swing where Diane had slept, or the tree he and Connor had hidden in from the avalanche, and Finn would tell Badger all about it, about what had happened there. His words sounded like stories he was making up. It was all so long ago.

Matt was long gone and the new lengthsman, Flane from down the valley, did his job without help from Finn's father. The harvest, when the time came around, was a good one, and the barns and storehouses were full for the winter. Badger grew bigger each day but still raced everywhere, full of enthusiasm for everything. She made Finn laugh just to look at her.

They often went to the glade, Shireen's glade. It was one of Badger's favourite walks. The path through the bushes that had once been so hard to find was now well-worn.

They went that way now, Badger dashing ahead of him, knowing the way. Finn followed. She'd come back to him sooner or later. He sat down in the glade to wait. The log was old now, crumbling to the touch, orange and soft like a sponge. Diane's blanket and the stuff wrapped in it, left there years before, had disappeared soon after she'd gone. Finn sometimes wondered who or what had taken them.

Badger came bursting through the wall of trees to stand in front of him, panting and wide-eyed. She flopped to the ground. Finn knelt down and stroked her feathery fur.

“I told you about this place, didn't I, girl? What happened here.” He'd told her the stories often. She looked up at him, head c****d on one side as she tried to understand his words. “Shireen and Connor and Diane. I told you all about them, eh?”

He stopped and looked up, suddenly cold, like a shadow had passed over him, although the circle of blue through the treetops was as bright as ever. He was only troubled because of the rumours that had been flashing up and down the line-of-sight for the past few days. Ironclads. Ironclads in the valley again. He paid them no attention. It happened. Someone misunderstood someone else and everyone started panicking.

He stood up. His cheekbones ached as he clenched his jaws tight. He forced himself to breathe deeply. He was being ridiculous. He needed to relax. It was okay.

The trumpet-call cut through the warm air, sending birds racketing off through the branches.

When it had faded away, he looked back down at the dog, waiting to continue their walk. Of course, she had no experience of the ironclads, had no idea what their arrival meant. And what did it mean? Perhaps they were still tracking Diane, even after all that time. The thought filled him with dread. He had to find out why the ironclads were there.

“Come on, Badger,” he said. “I think we have to go.”

They were waiting for him at home. He saw the horses as he came around the turn in the lane. He thought about running there and then. But they couldn't have come for him. His father had promised him he was safe. His father and mother would explain everything, sort everything out when he got home. Badger kept glancing up at him as they approached, unsure what it all meant. The horses were tethered to the fence, just as they had been for Shireen. They were smaller than he remembered, but still massive in their black and silver armour.

There was silence as he opened the door and walked inside. His father sat at the table, his head in his hands, face invisible. Two ironclads stood behind him. His mother was filling a canvas backpack and wiping tears from her eyes as she did so. She strapped the patchwork blanket from his bed to the top. The master stood behind her, with two more ironclads beside him. The master was young and handsome with straight, blond hair. Only the mocking look in his eyes spoiled things. He smiled.

“Finn,” his mother said and rushed towards him to squeeze him tight. “Finn, Finn. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Looking over his mother's shoulder at his father he could see now that there was blood on his father's hands. He was covering a wound on his forehead. What had happened? Had he tried to fight the ironclads?

“Father? Are you all right?”

His father looked up, squinting through the pain. He held a rag to his forehead, soaked through with blood.

“I'm fine, Finn.”

“You said they wouldn't take me. I don't understand. Tell them they can't take me.”

He had never seen his father crying before, but there were tears on his cheeks now, rolling down to lose themselves in his great, bushy beard. He didn't speak again. All he could do was shake his head, clutching the rag to him.

His mother released Finn enough to look into his face.

“We'll put together everything you'll need,” she said.

Within an hour they were lumbering down the lane. Finn could hear only the clanking and tinkling of the ironclads' armour and the occasional snort of a horse. His mount was already uncomfortable, her great flat back too wide for his legs. The shackles on his wrists prevented him riding properly. He already felt bruised, and each step of the horse sent another bang of pain through him.

His mother and father, his house, his garden – it all shrank away behind him. He would never see them again. But that was a nonsensical statement, too big to take in. It wasn't possible. He twisted his head back to watch them, his mother and father standing together, not moving, arms around each other. Badger was tied to the gatepost behind them, straining at the rope to follow Finn down the lane. It looked as if his father was holding his mother up, stopping her from sagging to the ground. They'd been allowed a few minutes only, a few words, before he was lifted onto the horse.

“Keep your head up, son,” his father said. “Don't take any messing from anyone.” He'd wanted to say more but couldn't. His wound still bled, a line of fresh blood running down the side of his face.

His mother had held onto Finn's hand as they started moving, walking with them. “I've packed your hat, and your warm jumpers, and everything you might need. Will you be all right, Finn?”

He didn't have a voice just then. He nodded, looking down on his mother's upturned face. Her eyes were raw.

“Here.” His mother gave him a boiled sweet to suck; a taste of honey that would always remind him of her. “I've slipped a bag of them in. Take them with you. Perhaps they'll last you all the way there.”

Finn nodded again, not able to understand what was happening.

They picked up speed and his mother had to trot to keep up, still clutching Finn's shackled hand.

“Finn, I…”

An ironclad, riding alongside, reached out to knock his mother's arm free. With a jerk of his helmet he told her to stop, go back. Obeying, disbelief on her face, she walked to a halt and then stood, the rest of the ironclads passing around her. It looked to Finn as if she was moving away from him, receding backwards into the past, into his former life, with each jolt from the horse.

He watched as she disappeared around a bend. He looked at the ground, at the hedges. Everything he could see was utterly familiar. He knew each boulder in the ground, the twist of each trunk in the hedge. They were his world, seen and not seen thousands and thousands of times. He told himself once more he would never see any of them again. He still could not grasp it. He watched a stump in the hedge slide by, a stump that always looked to him like an old woman's face, creased and wrinkled. Old Mrs. Hampton, he thought. He had never pointed it out to anyone. He never would, now. He wanted to cry but he felt too stunned, the feelings too vast to squeeze through his eyes.

Up ahead, Mrs. Megrim stood at the side of the line at the foot of the Switch House path. He thought she was going to shout something to him, but when they were near, she stepped out in front of the master on the lead horse. She looked tiny and frail standing there, as if the gentlest wind would blow her away. Wisps of grey hair swirled around her head. She would surely be crushed by the horses' armoured hooves. But she refused to yield. Her eyes were black pebbles. The master and the ironclads reined in.

Saying nothing, she picked her way between the horses. She stopped in front of Finn, put her hand on his leg. Making sure no one else could see, she showed him the folded square of paper she held in her hand. He couldn't take it with his hands tied behind his back, so she slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. The look in her eyes made clear what he already knew. This was important. He mustn't forget. It was a look he was well used to. He tried to smile at her.

The master at the head of the column goaded his horse into action with a jab of his heels then, reasserting his authority over the troublesome old crone. The spell broken, the others lurched forwards to follow. Mrs. Megrim had to scurry to the side of the lane between the flanks of the horses. Finn's last sight of her, turning his head backwards, was of a crumpled huddle of black in the dust at the side of the road where she had fallen.

They walked on, past the crossroads and Three Tree Hill. On and on, down and out of the valley.