Engn

III

IIIA shower of rain thrummed on the metal roof of the moving engine, heavier and heavier, the sound swelling from drumbeat to roar. Finn clasped his hands over his ears. It was the roar of the avalanche once again. Despite the darkness he screwed his eyes tight shut. He rocked himself backwards and forwards. Water seeped in from somewhere, dripping onto him in slow, fat drops, sloshing around on the floor to soak his feet.

Drainage holes in the floor of the machine squirted plumes of muddy water, flung up by the iron wheels. He imagined the engine sinking into the mud, stuck so that even the horses couldn't haul it out. He imagined mud oozing in through the holes in the floor, drowning him inside his metal cage. He put his eye to the nearest ventilation hole and peered out. They were still grinding forwards. All he could see was sodden woodland slipping by, the black bulk of an ironclad horse, splashes of mud kicked up by dinner-plate hooves.

He glimpsed a row of trees and the wall of a house, the stone red, unlike the yellows and browns of home. His forehead banged against the metal wall as they lurched along. There was a figure, a woman, standing by the side of the road, watching them pass. She held a shawl bunched at her throat with her fist. Finn could only see the lower half of her face, the straight line of her mouth, rain dripping from her chin.

When they passed through villages the whole population would often be there, watching them, not speaking, as if witnessing a funeral procession. Children hid behind the legs of adults. They reminded Finn of the day he and Connor had watched their own village coming out, the day they'd first glimpsed a moving engine and Finn hadn't known what it was.

Occasionally he spotted a Switch House, unmistakable with its telescopes bristling at all angles. He would imagine messages flashing to his own house, to Mrs. Megrim and then on to his parents. Finn is here. Finn is passing through here. He would think about shouting to the people, telling them to send a message, say he was still alive, that they hadn't beaten him. But he knew the people wouldn't dare.

It became more and more humid inside the engine, the heat from the machine turning the air to steam. He panted as if he'd been running. He scooped up some of the water sloshing around by his feet and sipped at it. It tasted of mud and rust, making his mouth gritty. He spat the water back out.

They had thrown his backpack inside with him, and he lifted it onto his lap to try and keep it dry. He buried his head in the patchwork blanket his mother had strapped to it, breathing in the familiar, soft smell, wiping his eyes. Then he rummaged inside the bag for one of the honey sweets. He'd planned to ration himself to one a day, make them last as long as possible, but this was already his third since the morning. Still, sucking them helped. They were his secret. They were the only way, for now, that he could defy the ironclads and the master who gave them their orders.

The sweet tasted of sunlight and flowers. Finn closed his eyes and let the memories it brought with it fill his mind.

“Finn!” hissed Connor. Finn knew, immediately, this wasn't part of their game.

They each had bows and arrows, the bows broken-off sycamore branches stretched with string, the arrows lengths of dowel from his father's workshop. They hid among the trees. The winner was the first to shoot the other without being shot himself. The arrows were blunt but you had to be careful not to hit each other in the eye. The problem with the game, always, was in agreeing what was a fatal blow. Arguments were common.

You're dead, Con. I just shot you!

No, you didn't. It glanced off. Anyway, you were already dead because I'd already got you.

Now, at Connor's call, Finn stepped out from behind his tree and picked his way over to his friend. He kept his bow ready, an arrow poised, just in case it was a trick after all. He found Connor lying on the ground, looking out over the steep slope to the valley floor below.

Finn threw himself down beside Connor.

“What is it?”

“Shh!”

It was hot. The air swirled and shifted as Finn gazed down at the distant buildings, the patchwork of yellow fields, the thin line of the river and the lane running down the middle of the valley. The whole valley was laid out like a play set, the houses wooden toys. He amused himself by closing one eye and pretending to pick up a house in his outstretched, pinched fingers. It was the one where Old Mrs. Hampton had lived. He pretended to drop it back down again some way away, on the other side of the river.

Connor had the telescope out and was looking at something down there, but Finn couldn't see anything unusual. The light was too bright. He studied a rock on the ground in front of his eyes, a jagged ball that sparkled with thousands of tiny flecks of light. A good catapult stone. Finn picked it up, clutching it tight in his hand. It was warm and rough. He shut his eyes, enjoying the glow of heat on top of his head.

Days like this always made him think of Shireen. It had been like this, hotter even, when she'd been taken. She was fading in his memory now, her face indistinct. He tried to imagine her as she'd been on that day. He had to make the effort. If he couldn't, she no longer existed. She was there, but her features were a blur. He wondered what she was doing in Engn at that moment. What did any of them do there? His mother's brother, Joe, and his father's uncle and everyone else. He supposed it took a lot of people to keep the wheels turning and the furnaces roaring.

He had seen the machine in his dreams. Steam hammers the size of houses shaking the ground as they struck. Vast banks of clicking, whirring cogs. Pistons pumping and axles spinning. One day, he had decided, he would sneak closer and gaze upon the great machine just as his father had done.

“There! Look, by the Moot Hall.”

In the bright light and the hazy air, the old wooden building looked impossibly distant. Finn could see figures on horseback emerging from behind it. They could have been toys.

Connor handed Finn the old telescope. When Finn put it to his eye the distant scene snapped into clarity. Ironclads. There could be no doubt. Two, three, five of them. They had metal-clad hounds with them too, snuffling at the ground just ahead of the horses. The shining metal figures on their barrel-bodied horses were suddenly alarmingly near. Finn felt exposed. He expected one of the human machines to turn in their saddle and look him in the eye, beckon to him. He searched for the robed figure, the leader without the armour, but couldn't see him.

“You think they've come for someone?” asked Finn. Ironclads hadn't been seen in the valley for years, since the day they'd come for Shireen.

“Could be.” They were both whispering, although the ironclads were a long way away and wouldn't have heard if they'd shouted. “They're looking for something.”

“Wait. What's that?” said Finn. Farther down the track, something like a small, squat house or water-tank lumbered up the valley. It was cylindrical, made of a dull black metal. It had four spindly wheels, like a cart's, but iron rather than wood. It moved without anything pulling it or pushing it. Balls of black smoke huffed out of its funnel as it rolled forwards. Finn could hear it even at that distance, the sound of each exhalation strangely delayed, heard a clear moment after the corresponding puff of smoke. An ironclad rode on a footplate at the back of the machine, hands on its levers.

“Let me see,” said Connor, pulling the telescope from Finn. “It's an engine!” he said after a moment. “They've brought a moving engine with them.”

“What is it? What's it for?”

“There'll be something kept inside it. They use them sometimes. If there's a battle or something. They can go anywhere and nothing can stop them.”

“But why? Where are they going with it?”

“Dunno.”

There was a fork in the road ahead of the ironclads. One branch led off to Connor's farm. The other went on up through the valley, past Three Tree Hill and Finn's own house. Finn could feel the tension in his friend as they watched the distant horsemen creep up to the fork, and then past it, heading up the valley rather than to the farm.

Connor let out his breath while relief washed through Finn. He would be lost without Connor. They spent their days playing together. At the same time alarm began to gnaw at Finn's insides. The ironclads worked their way up towards his own house now. But they couldn't be coming for him. He was two years younger than his friend. And they already had Shireen. His father had promised him he was safe.

Finn's gaze swept up the valley, following the line of the lane. People emerged from each house, watching the ironclads approach. There was Matt, working at the crossroads, pickaxe over his shoulder. Farther up was Mrs. Megrim, standing at the door to the Switch House on the hill. Two of the riders peeled away and rode up the steep path towards her. Mrs. Megrim strode to meet them and they conversed for some time, the old woman occasionally pointing up or down the valley.

“That old witch,” said Connor.

The two of them lived in terror of Mrs. Megrim. For two hours on most mornings she instructed them in their letters and numbers, explaining in tedious detail how the line-of-sight network functioned, or droning on about the history of conflicts between the Guild city-states and the ancient disasters of the Clockwork War. Mrs. Megrim knew instantly if Finn's or Connor's attention wandered, and she would snap them back into the present with a sharp crack of a stick on the desk. Or even across the back of their heads. They weren't even free of her when they were released; she knew everything they got up to outside. She would flash messages to their houses and Finn and Connor would arrive home, thinking no one knew about the apples they'd stolen or the fish they'd poached, only to discover their parents knew all about it. Finn wondered what she was telling the ironclads now. He tried to work it out from the movements of her mouth but couldn't.

Sweeping farther up the valley with the telescope, he picked out his father, coming from his workshop to stand with his mother. He wore the thick leather apron he always wore when working at the forge. He carried one of his big club hammers over his shoulder. The ironclads' dogs approached, sniffing around the garden gate. His own garden gate. The main body of riders came up behind them and stopped. For a moment, his heart leaping inside him, Finn thought they were dismounting. But they were only leaning down to speak to his parents. The sunlight glinting off their metal armour made it hard to see what was happening. The conversation continued for some time. Finn found he was gripping the smooth metal of the telescope tightly.

Finally, the ironclads kicked their horses back into motion and cantered on up the lane, dogs bounding on ahead, noses to the ground. Clouds of dust rose into the air as they worked their way farther up the valley. Some way behind, the engine ground after them, never stopping or slowing.

Finn put the telescope down and turned away. He looked at Connor.

“Come on. Let's go.”

“Where to?”

Finn shrugged. “Back into the woods. Let's play a different game.” He was in no hurry to go home.

“We could play ironclads,” said Connor as they walked. It was an old game. The one being the ironclad couldn't be killed. The other had to run and hide. They couldn't fight back. If they were touched, they lost.

“Okay,” said Finn.

“I'll be the ironclad,” said Connor.

“Okay.”

“But this time, don't just run off and leave me, all right?”

They'd played a couple of weeks previously. When night started to fall, Finn had crept back home without saying anything to Connor, suddenly alarmed by the darkening woods and the thought of an ironclad, even if it was only Connor, coming for him. The following morning, when they met again to play, Finn had been wary, knowing he had left Connor alone in the woods, not completely sure if he would be his friend once more.

“Tell you what,” said Finn. “Let's say I'm not allowed to lose sight of you. I can hide but I have to be able to see you.”

“All right. I'll count to ten.”

“Twenty!”

Flinging aside his bow, Finn hared off, leaping over low scrubby bushes into the shadows between the trees. When he was out of sight he stopped, hid behind a bough and looked back. Connor had just started to walk forwards, moving with the stiff legs they both used when pretending to be an ironclad.

Finn ran on, weaving between the trees. He worked his way uphill, thinking to circle around behind Connor. He dashed through pools of golden light where the sun slipped through gaps in the canopy overhead. A brook babbled its way down the slope off to his right. Finn followed its line, intending to leap across farther uphill. The air was pungent with the smell of wild garlic.

Three times he caught a glimpse of Connor. The older boy had stopped pretending to be a machine now and was loping after Finn, following the trail of crushed plants.

Finn ran faster so that he could hear Connor pushing his way through the undergrowth some way behind him but not see him. It was more or less within the rules. With a mad dash, he veered off to his right, leapt into the brook and began to wade upstream. The water was icy on his feet even in the summer. Thirty yards up, the brook turned and there was a small patch of gravel and stone where the two of them sometimes – uselessly – tried to dam the flow. Finn sprang out of the water there, ran along the slope, then angled back down towards Connor. He hadn't heard his friend for some time but knew where he must be. Finally, he flung his back against the bough of a great tree for a moment while his breathing calmed.

Finn peered around the trunk of the tree. Connor was there, just a distant shape between the trunks. It was impossible to see which way he was looking, but he must be walking away, following Finn's trail. He wouldn't be far, now, from the place where Finn had run to the brook. When he saw that, Connor might guess what Finn was up to.

Finn stepped out, tense, ready to run if he saw Connor coming for him. But Connor continued to move away, disappearing again and again behind distant trees. Finn smiled. If he could touch his friend without being seen first, he would be the winner. He set off to hunt Connor.

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, jerking him backwards.

“You are to be taken to Engn, boy!”

Finn stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. He looked up, expecting to see the ironclads from down in the valley. But instead, there was Connor, his face beaming. “The ironclads will take you!”

Finn, disoriented, struggled up to his feet. He looked at Connor, then into the woods all around them. Now nothing moved out there except for the birds, oblivious to their games, twittering among the high branches.

“Connor. But you were way over there.”

His friend sat back against a trunk and smiled. “I figured you'd try and get around behind me, Finn. So, I just climbed a tree and watched you.”

“But … I saw you. Over there.”

“Can't have.”

Finn looked around again, confused.

“Come on,” said Connor. “Your turn to be the ironclad.”

“No! It's not fair. You must have cheated,” said Finn. He still buzzed with terror, thinking the real ironclads had caught him.

“Me?” said Connor. “I didn't cheat, you did! I saw you running away. You were supposed to keep me in sight!”

“I did keep you in sight!”

“Didn't!”

“And who says ironclads can climb trees anyway?”

“Who says they can't?”

They were suddenly both shouting at each other, standing face to face. Finn saw Connor's hand flinch, like he was going to hit him. Finn balled his own fist, ready to fight back. They fought, sometimes, Finn's speed more or less a match for Connor's strength. Neither spoke for a moment.

“I'm going home,” said Finn, turning away from Connor and striding off through the trees.

“Yeah, that's right,” Connor shouted after him. “Run off to mummy and daddy again!”

Finn refused to look back as he strode down the slope away from Connor.

“Watch out for ironclads!” Connor shouted. Finn began to run through the trees, not stopping until he could see the waterwheel and his house beyond it.

He began to walk. Anger hammered through him. He wiped his eyes; he didn't want his parents to know he'd been crying. It was evening by now, but still warm. The air was thick with the buttery tang of fresh-cut grass. He stopped on the bridge, pretending to look at the chortling water, sucking in deep breaths of air.

After long minutes, he turned and made his way along the cable markers to their house. In the twilight he could just see that the dust in the lane still bore hoof marks from the ironclads' horses, along with two wide strips worn by the wheels of the engine. They reminded Finn of his sledge, the day of the avalanche.

Inside the house, his parents were preparing supper, his father peeling potatoes, his mother pushing a pie into the roaring oven, her face lit up red in the fire's glow. The delicious smell of bread filled the air.

“Hello, little one. Are you hungry?”

Finn nodded, not trusting his own voice. He filled a beaker with cold water from the tap and gulped down the whole thing in one go. He poured himself another.

“How is Connor?” asked his father.

“Fine.”

A long roll of paper had billowed out of the line-of-sight. Finn crossed to look at it, picking up the paper with the lines of tiny black dots singed onto it by the lenses of the 'scope. The messages were from people all over the valley. Each said the same word over and over.

“What did they want?” Finn called out. His parents didn't answer for a moment. “The ironclads?”

His mother came out of the kitchen, pushing a stray lock of hair back into place. She had patches of flour on her cheeks. She crossed to stand with Finn.

“They just rode through on their way somewhere, love.”

“Who were they looking for?”

“I don't know.”

She wasn't telling him the truth. Or wasn't telling him everything.

“Were they looking for me?”

“Of course not, Finn. It was no one we know.”

“Why did they come here then?”

“They were just passing through the valley. Up on to Ironoaks and Bears.”

“Did they say anything about Shireen?”

“No, love, of course not. Now wash your hands and come to the table.”

Finn looked at the scroll of paper from the line-of-sight once more, then dropped it and crossed to sit at the table.

No one spoke as they ate. Finn wanted to ask his parents more questions, but he could see from their frowns that he shouldn't. At least they didn't ask him anything else about Connor.

After they had eaten, he cleared the table in silence and went outside. There was no sign of Connor or the ironclads. He played alone in the garden until it grew too dark to see.