‘The birds will need protection,’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘I can get some birdwatchers down in twenty-four hours. Set up a camp maybe, but . . . my protest days are over.’
‘What do we do, then?’ said Tomaz. ‘We just leave him?’
Doctor Ellie looked at him. ‘I’m going to suggest something to you both – something controversial. I’m going to suggest that we gather all the remains ourselves and hide them.’
‘Where?’ said Tomaz.
‘In caves, down by the silver deposits. Out of view, where nobody will see. It’s not perfect, but – they won’t last long here and we don’t want them . . . put under glass. Do we?’
‘You mean bury them,’ said Tomaz. ‘Can we do that?’
‘Their souls have gone, surely. They’ve got Eleudin back now – I don’t see why they’ll be waiting any longer.’
‘They never wanted to be buried,’ said Vicky. ‘They like the light too much. And the rain and—’
‘I know, dear, but I don’t see how we can save them.’
‘Who were the children?’ said Tomaz. ‘If their souls are gone, how come we were followed, wherever we went? Why were they playing with us?’
‘Because they loved you,’ said Vicky.
Tomaz covered his face.
Doctor Ellie smiled, but they could see how she too was struggling. ‘I’m not an expert,’ she said. ‘I told you before, Tom, I’m just a dry old stick that’s been pushing my nose in. Guessing. I don’t even know how it started and I don’t know what I’m going to do now we’re at the end of it all. I don’t know what they want.’
‘Did they just want to look at us, maybe? Or did they know us somehow?’
‘I don’t know, Tomaz.’
‘Because I never saw them,’ said the boy. ‘Not really – not to look at, full on. It’s like when I see Lord Vyner. It’s always a reflection in a mirror. I heard them, though, all the time.’
‘They were always laughing,’ said Vicky. ‘So that must be good.’
‘I was guided here through the wood,’ said Doctor Ellie, ‘but all I saw were footprints. And yes, I heard the laughter. Felt a hand—
‘I wish they’d take their dead for themselves,’ said Tomaz.
‘I know.’
‘We can’t bury them, Doctor Ellie.’
‘I don’t see what else we can do, love. There will be people here – soon.’
Tomaz felt a hand in his then and froze, because it was such a small hand.
Doctor Ellie turned, aware of a movement. Then she froze as well and saw Vicky’s mouth open and her eyes widen, for there were children everywhere. For a moment they thought it was Anjoli and Sanjay. They thought they saw Millie and long-haired Miles smiling – and then they thought it was bare-chested Nikko, staring with huge eyes, wreathed in flowers. Then they knew it wasn’t.
The bodies were pale and the hands were white as if rubbed in chalk. The wrists were wrapped in gold thread and the skin was hennaed with complex tattoos.
Time stood still for a moment and the birds watched. The figures glowed. They were projections on the air, half seen – reflections in so many mirrors – but all around there was movement, for the leaves were trembling and there was sunlight. Tomaz would talk about what he saw, or thought he saw, but his version of events would differ from Doctor Ellie’s. Tomaz said there was no laughter – just movement and rustling. Vicky said she heard them talking and she heard the sound of metal on stone. She said she saw one of the urns swing and lift, and she said she even saw hands passing it. She could not raise her head, though; it was all at the side of her vision.
Doctor Ellie said least of all, for she was too upset – she vowed she would write it down, one day, when she finished her history. She said that all she knew for sure was that the Caillitri children were leaving Ribblemoor, at last, and would never return. It dawned on her only at that moment that they really had been there in the valley and that the Lost Tribe was found again, in time only for farewell. They had returned to claim their dead.
When the three watchers came to and could move, the air around them was warm. They each found a flat stone in their hand and it was white, etched over with a fine pattern of silver and bronze. It had a word they’d never heard or seen before, carved over a feather.
‘Gaovida’ was the word, and there was a curious accent under the o.
When they went among the trees, every pot was gone – even the creepers that had tied them had been removed, as if the graves had never existed. There was another change, too, though it was hard to say what. A powerful presence was no more; a charge in the air, like the scent of electricity, has been dissipated. It was as if the sacred grove were sacred no longer.
The orphans translated the word for them when they all got back to Ribblestrop and were sitting in the dining hall. It was a word, said Sanjay, used by sister to brother, or parent to child – an intimate word, when one is setting out on a journey. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘But it’s much more than that. It’s . . .’
Anjoli said, ‘It’s when you’re going a long way and you don’t want to really say it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Eric. ‘Kind of, “Goodbye, I love you – see you again”.’
‘But it kind of means you know you might not,’ said Sanjay.
‘It’s a pretty sad word,’ said Israel.
Asilah said, ‘It’s the one my mother used.’
Everyone looked at him. He had never spoken of his mother.
‘She said it to me, the last time I saw her,’ he said. ‘Gaovida, chele. It means . . .’ He hesitated. ‘It means, “Stay well, my love . . .”’ He paused again, because his voice was shaking. ‘“Until I see you again. Some time, I don’t know when. But I hope I do.”’
Imagio was there first. He put his arms round his friend and hugged him, because for the first time in so long, strong, sensible Asilah had started to cry. Imagio kissed him and held him. ‘Come on, man,’ he said, quietly. ‘Come on.’
Everyone gathered. ‘It’s a word full of love,’ said Imagio. ‘Isn’t it? That’s something, surely. That’s what you hold on to.’
Epilogue
I
How did things end? Where were the teachers and how would everyone be reunited? Extraordinary events unfolded now, for the day was far from done. The children tore their eyes away from the remains of ex-Inspector Cuthbertson and it was just at that moment that there was a squawk of radio static.
It was the police radio, that Captain Routon had stolen. He put it to his ear.
‘Oh my word,’ he said. ‘I’d completely forgotten!’
‘About what?’ said Millie.
It’s not over, is it? – but what can we do?’
‘What isn’t over?’ shouted Miles.
‘The headmaster. Doonan. Professor Worthington. Shhh!’
Captain Routon listened to the faraway babble of electronic voices.
‘It’s bad, boys,’ he said. He turned his back, cradling the radio to his ear. ‘Very bad. They’ve been arrested. And taken—’
‘Arrested?’ said Sanchez. ‘Arrested for what?’
‘Wait!’ said Captain Routon.
He clicked a button again and they heard the buzz of static.
‘So where are they?’ said Miles, unable to bear the suspense. ‘Where are they at the moment?’
‘Hang on, lad. I’m just getting an update.’
He turned a knob and listened harder.
‘They’re saying something about a train. They’re being taken to London, by the sound of it, but . . .’
Millie grabbed the radio and shouted into it. ‘Where are you taking our teachers?’
She held it close.
‘Tiverton,’ she said, after a moment. ‘They’re going to Tiverton Parkway.’
‘Where’s that?’ said Podma.
Caspar said, ‘It’s the main railway station. It’s the closest place to here, where the fast trains stop. The London trains . . .’
‘Why would t
hey go by train?’
‘I know why,’ said Captain Routon slowly. ‘It’s an outrage. It’s what the police do sometimes, when they want to break you. They walk you in public, in your handcuffs. Leave you on the station for an hour. Let everyone see you.’
‘But that’s Doonan,’ said Anjoli. His eyes were full of tears. ‘That’s Professor Worthington. The headmaster . . .’
‘They haven’t done anything wrong!’ cried Kenji. ‘You mean they’re standing on a station in handcuffs?’
‘How far is Tiverton?’ said Eric. He grabbed at a map.
‘How can we get there?’ said Sam.
‘I think it’s miles away,’ said Captain Routon softly. ‘I don’t think we can. We can stay together, we can write to them, or . . .’
Miles ran to the edge of the crater and looked down at the road. ‘We’ve got the balloon,’ he shouted. ‘And we’ve got an ice-cream van.’
Sanjay said, ‘What’s that over there? I can see something – come round here!’
The crowd followed him back round to the rock and they gazed over the moors to where Sanjay was pointing. He strained his eyes and the children tried to focus.
‘Coming down the slope,’ said Sanjay. ‘Just where the rocks are sharp – can you see them? They’re on the next tor.’
‘I can see . . . something,’ said Eric. ‘What is it?’
‘They’re coming towards us.’
‘Bicycles,’ said Imagio, in disbelief. ‘Loads of them.’
‘It’s a . . . is it Mountain Rescue?’ said Ruskin.
‘They’re mountain bikes,’ said Millie. ‘They’re coming right for us!’
Captain Routon was staring too. ‘It’s that chap from the High School,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you remember? Johnny Jay! He said his boys loved an adventure! He said he’d try to join us! They’ve braved the elements!’
As he spoke, a young man with conspicuously large ears soared into view. He leapt from a rocky outcrop and hung in the air a moment. Then he plummeted ten metres to the ground below, where he bounced once and skidded through the mud. A dozen children followed him – girls and boys – standing high on their pedals, zooming into focus. From the skirts of the tor came those who preferred a more cautious descent. A cloud of dirt and debris rose behind them as they slithered down the hillside. It took a few minutes, but the flock were soon together again – led by Johnny. They crossed the dip and started the final ascent up the path to Lightning Tor, a great flotilla of brightly coloured waterproofs.
The Ribblestrop and Priory children hurtled down to meet them. It took seconds to explain the mission and turn the bikes round. The children paired up briskly. Some sat on handlebars and some shared the saddle. Every child found a place and they were soon pushing off again, fired by sheer desperation.
Millie held onto Miles and Sanchez. They watched the departure and the same idea was forming in their minds.
‘It can’t be that hard, can it?’ said Miles.
‘We’ve got to try it,’ said Millie. ‘Something tells me it’ll be faster.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miles. ‘I don’t know if you can steer them, or what you do – you just hunt for different air currents.’
‘Let’s trust to luck,’ said Sanchez. ‘It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?’ He jumped into the balloon basket and pressed the ignition. In a moment the crumpled skin was inflating and in less than a minute they were off the ground, rising into clouds that were breaking open around them.
‘I think you just go high as you can,’ said Millie. ‘Oh my God, look!’
The birds were back for the last time, soaring as they rose. They swooped and dived and, as they did, a watery sun found strength and poured warmth and light over the moorland. The birds came together, caught in some updraft that spiralled them higher and higher. Then, in perfect formation, they were gone, like arrows.
‘This is the end, isn’t it?’ said Millie. ‘We can’t hope to do anything. We’re just going to . . . what? Say goodbye?’
Miles opened the burner as wide as it would go and they rose like a rocket.
‘We can do anything we want,’ he said, grimly. ‘Look at them all down there! There’s no goodbye, never.’
The moor below them was a vast patchwork of rock and rubble, and the river poured through it. They could see the High School bicycles, hurtling along its banks, and then fording it in waves of spray. They could see a camel, lolloping riderless behind, and an ice-cream van on the road, pursued by two loyal donkeys.
When the wind came, it caught them like a mighty hand and they were dragged across the sky. They clung to the sides of the basket and then they clung to each other. Higher and higher they soared, until the currents combined and pushed them south.
They saw the glint of railway tracks and then soon, in the distance, they saw the sleepy town of Tiverton. They came over a winking canal and green playing fields. At last, they spotted a car park and beneath them lay the main station.
‘Can you see any police?’ shouted Miles.
Sanchez was scouring the area with Timmy Fox’s binoculars. ‘No. We must have missed them. They’re gone.’
‘Can you see a train?’ cried Millie. ‘We could try and catch up, or go further up the line, or—’
‘There is a police car!’ said Sanchez. ‘By the doors. Wait . . .’
They floated nearer and Miles adjusted the valve so they dropped.
‘Oh no,’ said Sanchez. ‘I’ve got them.’
‘Let me see!’ said Millie.
She pressed her head next to her friend and they used an eye-piece each. They played the instrument along the track and came onto the platform. Sure enough, huddled in forlorn isolation, they saw the three teachers they loved.
‘They’re in their pyjamas,’ whispered Millie.
‘Slippers, too,’ said Sanchez. ‘They’re not even dressed properly. I can see handcuffs – it’s horrible – they look so sad! Miles, I think the train’s coming – we’re not going to make it . . .’
‘Sanchez,’ said Miles. ‘Give me the binoculars, please. I can see something else.’
‘What?’
‘Give me the binoculars!’
Miles was leaning over the basket, gazing down in a different direction. He put the binoculars to his eyes and swore quietly.
‘What?’ said Millie.
‘Look. You don’t need these any more. It’s incredible . . .’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere. Look around you! Look!’
Miles started to laugh. He grabbed Millie’s hand and put his arm round Sanchez. ‘It’s a revolution! It’s a complete, total revolution! Look, Sanchez . . . they’re everywhere! We’re saved! They’ll stop the trains, won’t they? That’s what they’re here for!’
There were just two roads to Tiverton Parkway station and both were thronged with school children. They overflowed the pavements, so they marched in the centre of the road, and the traffic had come to a hooting standstill. A bus disgorged fifty more and there were minibuses arriving. Children as young as five were hand in hand with older brothers and sisters. Most were holding cellphones and a simple text message was flicking back and forth, back and forth. It had been passing through classrooms for the last hour.
Tiv Park. Get there. Close it.
II
Blocking the line was easy.
Henry was a quarter of a mile south of the platform, and found a level crossing. He was with two High School boys, and they simply lay down on the tracks and refused to budge. The traffic stopped and the signalman had to telephone ahead, to say there was an obstacle on the line.
Angry motorists argued with the children and one even tried to drag them off. They simply linked arms and clung to the rail. The hooting queues lengthened on either side. Jacqueline, Charlie and Podma did the same thing at a crossing half a mile north. They clambered over the barrier and walked up the line as if they were off on a picnic. They ignored the cries and threats, and sat down on the
sleepers, smiling happily.
Tiverton Parkway was cut off and the south-west trains network had to be halted. Speeding expresses were held at other stations and the one bound for the Ribblestrop teachers came to a gentle stop – close, but not close enough.
Meanwhile, the texts continued to fly.
It had all been started by the High School children, of course. They made full use of their social networks and the airwaves were full – the world wide web buzzed with the outrage and then the solution. The word spread, mushroomed and magnified; the curiosity turned to determination, and anger turned to rage. Something wrong was happening – good teachers were under attack and the wrong had to be righted. Soon the pupils from a dozen schools were simply walking out of classrooms and it was a ground-swell that could not be contained. Children hauled open their school gates and caught buses. They persuaded friends to drive them. They came on mopeds and bicycles, and many simply jogged. The access to the station was soon choked with children in green, black, blue, magenta, maroon – every colour of the rainbow. It was a fire of pure indignation.
Teachers ran among them, shouting and waving. They were ignored. A police car tried to push through and was blocked, helpless, by the throng of young bodies that refused to give way. When a child in a red striped blazer jumped on the roof and started to dance, he was cheered. It was a peaceful protest and few understood its object – but there was change in the air. Get there, flickered the message. Get there now. Drop everything.
The children of The Priory School got direct calls from their friends on the moor. They rose and left their desks. Soon, the place was empty, for every child was running. A pair of off-duty bus drivers were persuaded and both vehicles were crammed. They got as close as they could, but of course the traffic was gridlocked, so the children stepped out onto the railway embankment and walked. In Bristol and Exeter, camera crews were scrambled. Daytime television was interrupted. The Education Minister received a desperate phonecall and was helicoptered straight to the scene. She looked down, helpless.
From the balloon as well, it was an extraordinary sight and the three friends held each other, unable to speak.