Engn

XIII

XIIIThe following day, after their third stretch of valve construction, Finn and the other boys clattered into the Octagon to play scrum. In theory it was a ball game, with two clear sides and a definite set of rules. The ball was a sack of leather, sewn into a rough sphere and filled with some sort of stuffing. A doorway on each side of the Octagon was used as a goal, the aim of the game being to wrestle the ball into the opponent's doorway. In practice the game generally descended into a mass brawl, with a cluster of pushing, shoving, kicking boys lurching around the Octagon, the ball somewhere within.

Finn stood on the edge of the pack, watching as one of the older boys, Tanner, wrestled the ball away and began to pound towards the opponent's goal. Tanner was a magnificent player of the game: strong, fearless, fast. He could keep running with four, five, six other boys hanging off him. Tanner always scored and all the newcomers were in awe of him. Finn grinned at the sight of him. Tanner was on his team today, while Graves, Croft, and Bellow were on the opposing side.

Finn thought, once again, about the beckoning figure in the dome window. He'd looked again that morning but seen no one. And what, exactly, had the figure been telling him to do? Was he somehow meant to find another way onto the roofs, pick his way across to the dome? There were large gutters that could act as walkways, but was there a way to get all the way across? There might be some great drop down to the ground somewhere. Perhaps he was supposed to find some other way to escape the Octagon and the Valve Hall. He couldn't think how. In any case, perhaps that wasn't it at all. Perhaps the test was to discover whether he ignored the invitation, whether he resisted temptation. How could he tell?

The doorway that led out of the Octagon, the one they'd come through the day they arrived, wasn't too far away from where he was standing. The wrestling mass of boys was a long distance away, over in the far corner. He could creep out of the Octagon now without anyone noticing. He backed into the shadows of the wall. His heart thumped. He wondered if he dared do it. He remembered the day, long before, when he stood on the branch of one oak tree and thought about leaping across to the next. He could do it, he knew. Was that what the figure in the dome had wanted?

But if he did flee, what would he do then? He'd never be able to find his way to the dome, or even back through Engn to the gates. He'd be crushed in some part of the machinery, or the ironclads would find him and haul him back. He had no chance. But, still, it was tempting to try. Delicious to consider it.

“Smithson!”

A chorus of voices brought him back to the Octagon. He'd stopped paying attention to the game. Bellow was charging towards him over the flint ground, the ball tucked under his arm, a throng of the other boys racing after him. Finn was suddenly the only player standing in Bellow's way.

He could tell Croft and Bellow apart now. They were indeed cousins, and had grown up on the same farm, their mothers, sisters. Croft was the shorter of the two. He had a scar across his upper lip, an old wound that twisted his face into a constant scowl. His cousin was taller, his face unmarred, handsome even. Bellow was, if anything, crueller than Croft. When they attacked one of the other boys it was Bellow who laughed out loud at each cry of pain.

“Smithson! Stop him!” It was Tanner, pounding after Bellow but not close enough to catch him.

Finn trotted forwards into Bellow's path and prepared to try and stop the charging boy. Perhaps if he could hold him up for long enough the others would arrive to help. Bellow roared with delight and flew directly at Finn, one arm outstretched towards Finn's face, hand clenched into a fist.

Finn wanted to turn and run. Bellow, stronger and taller, would send him flying. But he had to try and stop him. Finn hated to be beaten. He wouldn't run. Bellow was only feet away now. The taller boy could have simply dodged around Finn, fending him off with his hand to score an easy goal, but instead he charged directly at Finn, intending to knock him flat. That was Bellow's mistake. Finn had learned a thing or two in all the games he'd played with Connor.

He waited until the last moment then, dodging underneath Bellow's outstretched fist, hurled himself into Bellow's legs. A knee caught Finn on the chin, making him bite his tongue hard, but he grabbed hold of the bigger boy's knees and squeezed, preventing Bellow from running.

Bellow, carried forwards by his own momentum, crashed face-first into the hard flints, the ball squirting out to one side. From his position on the ground, Finn saw Tanner pick it up and hurl it back into the throng, away from their goal. Tanner nodded at Finn then charged off to re-join the game. Finn rose to his knees and then to his feet. Nearby, Bellow also sat up, his hands clutched to his nose and forehead. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“You'll pay for that, Smithson. I've broken one of my teeth. I'll break all of yours.”

Finn stood and simply grinned. He'd regret it later, but he couldn't help himself. “You should have a nice scar there,” he said. “Now we won't be able to tell you apart from your cousin.”

He turned and trotted off towards the mêlée.

After the game, they trooped back across the flints to wind their way up to the dormitory. Finn avoided Bellow and the others. Tanner had scored twice and Bellow's team hadn't scored any. Several boys patted Finn on the back for his tackle as they pushed inside the doorway.

At the bottom of the stairs they stopped to watch an old man descending the spiral staircase. He stooped under the load of a heavy weight strapped to his back that looked as if it would topple him forwards at any moment. The man grimaced with the effort of walking, staring at the steps in front of him, clutching the handrail with a mottled hand. He looked a little like the master in the little hut, the gatekeeper on the first day. The same nose, the same bushy beard. Were they brothers? His hair was an explosion of grey, wiry hair. He ignored the crowd of boys gathered at the foot of the stairs and pushed through to reach the longcase clock. The rope that led up to the campanile swayed slightly, as if someone had recently been swinging on it.

The old man squatted so that the weight on his back rested on the ground. He shrugged leather straps off his shoulders. The boys watched in silence, unsure what was happening. The weight, Finn could see now, was a wooden case containing another clock. An arrangement of gimbals cradled the mechanism, presumably so the man's movements didn't interfere with its accuracy.

A large ring of keys jangled on the man's belt: hundreds of them, large and small, silver and gold and dull steel. He picked through them to select one and unlocked the longcase clock. He slipped a pair of tiny, round glasses out of a pocket and perched them on his sharp nose. He began to adjust wheels and knobs within the longcase. Patches of pink scalp were visible through his wild grey hair. He turned to the clock he carried and compared the time, adjusting the longcase several times. Then, with his eyes shut, he adjusted the swing of the pendulum with a gentle hand, stroking it back into its proper path.

Finally, he locked the longcase clock back up, stood and took a small black leather book from another pocket. He wrote something down with a pen. Finn could see pages of text set out in columns, something like the line-of-sight logs from back home.

Only when the notebook was put away did the man appear to notice the boys. He gazed around at his audience. Most of them were much taller than he was. He looked suddenly like a cornered animal. Finn saw Graves nudge the boy standing next to him. Croft.

“Hey, old man,” asked Croft. “Have you got the time?”

The boys sniggered. The man said nothing for a moment, simply staring at Croft as if he didn't understand.

“What's the matter? Don't you understand?” said Graves. Finn, watching the old man saw the briefest spark of something unexpected in his eye: a look of amusement. It was there for only the briefest moment. Then it was gone and the old man was a cornered rat once more.

The man turned to the longcase clock and reached up to tap its face, as if explaining to Graves what its function was. “Clock 519, acolyte's stairwell, synchronized to master time,” he said.

He dropped to his knees, his back to his burden, and hooked the leather straps over his shoulders once more. With a grunt of effort, he straightened his knees and stood up, his back bent by the weight. He walked towards the boys who blocked his way into the Octagon. It looked to Finn like they weren't going to let him through.

But instead of trying to push through the door, the old man turned and began to ascend the stairs. Each step lugging the great clock was clearly a huge effort.

“Do you need help carrying that?” Finn called after him.

Most of the boys hooted and groaned. The old man glanced backwards. For the briefest moment, once again, Finn saw a different expression flash across his features. An intelligence, an appraising look. Then he shook his head and the look was gone, shaken loose.

“Clock 520,” he said, nodding upwards with his head. “The Sixth Bell Tocsin.”

Finn watched as, step by step, the great square clock wobbled its way upwards on shaky legs.

The other boys looked at Finn, some grinning, some shaking their heads. Graves stood, inevitably, with Croft and Bellow. They were not laughing. They scowled at Finn. He had spoiled their game. Twice this evening, he had spoiled their game. It meant trouble. Finn grinned at them but they didn't smile back.

Master Owyn heaved open the wooden door from the Octagon, then, to find the boys all standing there. Anger coloured his face.

“What are you all doing? Didn't you hear the Thirtieth Bell? You're supposed to be upstairs. Are you too stupid to understand?” He addressed his question to Graves, who said nothing.

Master Owyn stepped forwards and jabbed Graves hard in the chest with his finger, knocking him backwards. They were of an equal height, Graves and the master. For a moment, Finn thought the boy would retaliate.

“I asked you a question, boy. Why are you all still down here?”

“Waiting for him to go up, master.” Graves nodded upwards towards the clock-winder.

“Waiting for whom? There's no one there, boy. Do you think I'm stupid?”

The boys looked up together. It was true. The long, winding stairs were deserted.

“Next time I give you instructions, I expect you to obey them,” said Master Owyn. “Perhaps I should put Smithson here in charge, instead, eh? Now get to bed.”

There was a murmured chorus of yes, master. One by one, they began to file upstairs. Graves, as he stepped forwards, glanced at Finn, a glare on his face.

Finn knew well what it meant. There would be trouble again that night.