“He received blows,” cried the headmaster. “He was cut down, but he rose again . . .”
Fifteen boys and the headmaster wound their way up a hundred steps and piled into the dormitory. Sam lay there dozing and thus experienced a scene he would later assume was a hallucination brought on by fever: a sea of faces, blurring above his bed. Voices, words he could not understand, and then a sigh of music from an old accordion and a song sung like a lullaby.
“Shh, boys. Shhh! Sing:
Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;
This is what I dream about and where I want to be.”
A number of hands felt his forehead. He could see black with stripes of gold, and dark, kind eyes. He saw the face of Dr. Norcross-Webb, smiling proudly, and Sam wondered if this was heaven, and if so where his grandparents were.
“See not the broken halls, Sam,” said the headmaster. His voice was calm. “See not the smoke-damaged walls. See the stars, and see yourself—as a rocket, rising to those stars. Welcome to Ribblestrop Towers!”
*
Caspar Vyner was in bed. His bruises were inky violet, but the pain had faded. Both he and his gran heard the school song, drifting from the west tower. Lady Vyner’s hands trembled with fury as she carried another icepack to the bedroom.
Millie was wondering where she was, and heard nothing.
Down in their bunker, seven monks were holding a nighttime vigil, praying for troubled souls. They heard music, closed their eyes, and prayed harder.
And in a laboratory, way under the school, animals shifted in their straw, listening in darkness.
Chapter Nine
Sam was shaky the next day and his headache nagged. Nothing, however, would persuade him to stay in bed and he got up at half past five, showered, dressed, and joined everybody else at six o’clock for Captain Routon’s special first-day celebration fry up.
“Captain Routon!” cried the headmaster, holding a clock. “What’s the time?”
“Seven thirty, sir, on the dot.”
“Do we have the equipment?”
“We have what we need, sir.”
“Are the children gathered?”
“I believe so.”
“Then the term has started. Map the landscape, boys—I want this to be a ramble to remember, and when you’re back I want to see it with your eyes. Everyone’s got pens—now, who’s that with the easels?”
“Asilah, sir!” cried the tallest orphan. Asilah was a slim, handsome boy with an intense look about him. He was the obvious elder and took his responsibilities very seriously. He was softly spoken and seemed to communicate a vast amount simply by the movement of eyebrows. If he wanted the children in a line, or sitting down, capped or capless—Asilah’s quiet voice appeared to be law. He stood now with a number of large wooden tripods on his shoulder, as the smaller orphans lined up behind him. Anjoli—the child with the wildest hair—carried a roll of paper and a basket of felt tips.
“We’ve got a picnic at base camp,” said Captain Routon. “We’ll move off in single file to start with; I don’t want anyone getting lost. Henry, at the rear!”
Blazers were buttoned, ties were straightened, and the column set off. Captain Routon led the way, striding over the grass. The boys leaped behind him and the headmaster watched them disappear, waving. Like birds, they were: a flock of ducklings, following their leader. Their chatter and laughter faded in the crisp autumn air, and he felt tears in his eyes. “My school!” he whispered.
He wandered back inside and gathered up the breakfast things. He had a slightly tricky telephone call to make now, and it would need all his concentration. The new deputy, Miss Hazlitt—not the easiest of women, he had to admit—had been leaving messages all the previous evening, and he’d been hard pressed to make sense of them. A delay in Reading caused by children “on a line”—a phone line or railway line, he couldn’t be sure. Someone had possibly or possibly not stolen a purse full of brand-new credit cards . . . he wasn’t sure what that had to do with him. One of the cards had been found on the floor in a wine bar, but he couldn’t hear what followed, because the voice on his answering machine seemed to be barking, like a dog. He caught the words “strained wrist” and something about concussion, and then all he could hear was the sound of sauce pans clashed together. The final message talked about a hotel and “full recovery,” climaxing in the worrying phrase “I’ll be sending the bill,” which cut through all interference, crystal clear. Dr. Norcross-Webb needed leaders and decision makers, and if the woman had been injured in some way he’d want to help, of course. But if a bill was sent to him at the present time, there was no way he could pay it. He would have to persuade her to come, without delay.
*
A kilometer to the east, Captain Routon’s bald head was getting pinker in the sun. His muscles bulged in his forearms as he checked his map. He trotted forward, about-turned, and trotted back. He trotted to the rear, and then he skipped round to the front again. They had come down the slope of the lawn and turned toward the wood. It was the most beautiful day, and the children were happy and excited.
“Look to the left there, boys. Deciduous trees. View of the lake.”
The children rigged the easels and there was the frantic scratching of pens.
“Through the gap there, see that, son? That’s an imitation Greek temple, that is. Just by the water. As I understand it, that was built in honor of one of the many Greek deities, in 1786. The lake is actually an artificial lake—no, we’re not going swimming, not yet. On the other side, that’s Neptune. Let’s keep moving, you’ll get better views the higher we go.”
“Sanchez,” said Ruskin, as they climbed into the trees. “Do you know what happened to the new girl?”
“No,” said Sanchez.
“She wasn’t at breakfast. Do you think she’s sick?”
“Sick in the head, maybe.”
“It’s strange, because she missed supper too. This is confidential, but Sam was telling me she was expelled from her last school. I hope she hasn’t run away.”
“She’s bad news, Ruskin. I talked to her and I’m telling you, you want to stay well away.”
“Yes, but how many schools can you get booted out of? My father says that in the end, you have to stick at something. It’s no life, is it—always running away. Maybe she’s on supper duty, I didn’t look at the lists. This is lovely, isn’t it? Getting a bit warm . . .”
The track had got narrower and took the party steeply down to a brook and then up again. The younger orphans were racing ahead and their cries were parrotlike. Occasionally one would climb a tree and ambush his friends, leaping from dizzying heights. They spread into the undergrowth, and the forest was alive with Red Indian cries. By the time they emerged, most boys had stripped down to their shorts, and ties were worn bandana-style. It was a mercilessly hot day and the sun was still rising. Soon, they were ascending steeply and they came to a grassy peak with one lonely fir tree at the top. Again, the easels were distributed and the view was recorded. There was Ribblestrop Towers, like a honey-colored sandcastle on a mat of green grass. There was the distant town, with a church spire turning gray-blue in the haze. Sam’s picture was largely red and purple, because he was unable to distinguish color. He was also seeing double and his headache was returning.
“Oooh,” said Anjoli. “I think we have problem.”
Captain Routon was staring at his map. It was actually a rather creased, limp envelope with a series of biro marks. He turned a hundred and eighty degrees and looked up thoughtfully.
“Wrong turn, everybody,” he shouted. “We missed base camp. This is what I called ‘Beacon Point,’ and we shouldn’t be here till later. Pack up your stuff . . . Whose shoes are these?”
“Is there any water?” said Sam.
“Yes, but not here. I’d left a little stash of squash and sandwiches at the base, knowing we’d be peckish. I think we ought to find it . . . Best thing to do is to head nor’-nor’-west, which means
cutting a path down there. Through—that.” He pointed down the other side of the hill, which was a tangle of gorse and ferns. “What we do in this situation is make a path. Come on, lads, papers away. We’ll call this path the Sanchez Path, Sanchez, because I want you to cut it.”
“Yes, sir. What with, sir?”
“With a good stout stick. Such as you might find in the wood we’ve just come out of. Let’s just rest a moment while you and I go off to find a, er . . . suitable stick. Sorry, boys, when I get hot, I tend to lose track a bit.”
“I’ll come,” said Caspar. “I know every inch of this place.”
“Very well, that’s good. At ease, everybody, loosen up. Carry on with your pictures.”
In twenty minutes or so Sanchez, Caspar, and Captain Routon returned. They carried hefty sticks and looked hot.
“Charting as we go,” panted the captain. His right eye was twitching and one hand was clasped to his temple. “You see, boys—in many ways this is undiscovered country, virgin soil. From today, the maps will have to be redrawn for the Sanchez Path, eh?”
“We could do a project,” said Sanchez. “Couldn’t we, sir? We could make a model of the whole park!”
“I think you’d better all follow Asilah and Sanchez. I’m going to run round the perimeter here and see if I can reconnoiter the old railway and find base camp. I’ll meet you at two thirty, over there, with the refreshments. Damn, I’ve only got the one whistle, which is an error on my part . . . if I give this whistle to you, Henry, then if you do take a wrong turn, you can alert me. Careful, boy, don’t break it.”
“In which direction, sir?” said Sanchez.
“Straight. Absolutely straight. Keep the sun on your . . . right.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, sir?”
“It’s the sun, Sanchez. I’ve got a metal plate just here, above the eye. Should have worn a hat, this is my fault.” He pressed his temple hard. “Heats up in the sun and I tend to lose my bearings. But you will join up with the Edge, I’m sure you will.”
“Sir,” said Asilah. “Is there water anywhere? I think some of the little ones . . .”
“We should have brought supplies. If we’d been going farther, I would have issued water bottles, but you see the whole point of a nature walk is to remain unencumbered. We were used to twenty miles of this before breakfast, you know, out in Cairo . . . I’ll find base camp and meet you by the railway. Follow this boy, everybody—follow Sanchez. I’m going to run round and find a shortcut.”
Sanchez started hacking his path, and everyone followed. It was slow going, because the boys were now carrying discarded blazers and shirts, as well as their own papers and easels. After half an hour Sanchez was soaked in perspiration and had to stop. Henry and Caspar took over and they made quicker progress, moving down into a copse of trees. After some time they found a fox run, and even though it took them slightly off course into brambles that were higher than their heads, they followed it. This in turn led to a small stream, where every boy splashed and lapped. It was hard to get a sense of direction, but nonetheless—refreshed—the line set off again, the sun roughly on their right.
After two more hours, they came to a great slab of rock, projecting out like a lip, with a sheer drop beneath it. Creeping to the edge of this rock and daring to look down, every boy was thrilled to see a great mass of boulders below.
“Do you think you should blow that whistle, Henry?” said Sam.
“I think we are lost,” said Sanchez. “Do you know where we are, Caspar?”
“Somewhere,” said Caspar. “I’ve been here before, I expect.”
Anjoli smiled and pointed down the cliff. He made diving gestures and Sanchez waved his hands: “No. Not yet. We have to wait.”
“It’s that stupid man’s fault,” said Caspar. “I bet he’s gone and lost us. I bet he’s got no qualifications whatsoever.”
Henry blew the whistle.
The landscape returned only the flap of a bird and a very distant sound of wind in treetops. This was repeated—the blowing and the listening—three times. Again, each boy sat and sketched the view. The world was melting in the haze.
“Are you all right, Sam?”
“No,” said Sam.
“You’re dizzy,” said Ruskin. “We’ll get you home soon.”
“Perhaps he shouldn’t have come,” said Sanchez. “He should have stayed with Millie. Wherever she is.”
“I’m hungry,” said Caspar. “We’ve got no lunch, no water—nothing. This whole thing is a farce.”
“Do you think we could find our way back?” said Asilah. “What if we just turn round?”
“You’ve all drawn maps!” said Caspar. “I should damn well hope you can find the way back!” He was sounding tearful.
“Sanchez!” said Ruskin, after ten minutes or so. “I’ve had a thought. Do you think Captain Routon has set us a test?”
“What do you mean?” said Sanchez.
“What if he’s sent us off, in roughly the right direction, to see if we can find our way home?”
“But how?” said Asilah, who was listening closely. “We don’t know where we are going.”
“That’s the test!” said Ruskin. “To see if we can keep our heads. That’s just like him, isn’t it? He’s one of those war veterans. I bet he’s had to live in jungles and all sorts. So here we are, experiencing survival first hand. Maybe we’re supposed to spend the night out here—maybe all this art stuff is for firewood!”
Henry seemed upset when he heard that. The whistle drooped from his lip and he started to rock backward and forward. Asilah put his hand on his shoulder and the orphans all huddled closer.
“Look,” said Sanchez. “This is the Edge, isn’t it? This is what Captain Routon was talking about.”
Anjoli said, “We can climb down, no problem.”
Ruskin peered over the lip again. “You know, it must be. I mean we are on an edge, aren’t we? It’s a big—what do you call it? An outcrop.”
“Hey,” said a voice. “Look.”
The speaker was a small, earnest-looking boy, who had so far been very quiet. He had a fine stubble of hair under a cap he’d turned backward. He was staring into the distance, his eyes mere slits. Sanjay was his name, and he’d been a ship’s boy for most of his life, navigating container vessels over the South China sea. “Railway,” he said, pointing. As soon as he spoke, everybody saw it. Just beyond a great tilted slab of rock ran a shoulder of track.
“The old railway,” said Ruskin. “I know where we are!”
“Yes,” said Sanchez. “I think Captain Routon said we would come to the railway line. From the quarry . . .”
“Which is—yes!” cried Ruskin. “That’s where we’ve come to. Well spotted, Sanjay! That must be the railway that was built to move the stone to the mansion building, so all we do is follow the tracks back . . . through the rock. I’m sure.”
Anjoli had followed most of this and he had certainly picked up Ruskin’s excitement. He translated quickly and smiles of relief spread down the line like lights coming on. He was on his feet, pushing back his hair and pulling on his shirt. “Let’s go!” he cried.
“Hang on!” said Sanchez. “This is dangerous. Why don’t we rope ourselves together, with our ties? Then, if we fall . . .”
As he spoke, Anjoli jumped. One second he was there, and the next he was falling. Sanjay was right behind him, and—one by one, like highly trained paratroopers—the orphans dived into space. The joy of fallen rock is that there are always footholds and ledges, and in seconds they were virtually cartwheeling downward. Nobody had realized that these children had been born into a terrain far more rugged than this one, and that they’d learned to climb before they could toddle. They rolled, they skipped, they threw one another. As soon as they reached the bottom, they came back up for another go.
The difficulty was handling Sam, but that was soon overcome by the Sanjay-Anjoli partnership. Henry lowered him gently down and the orphans took over,
passing him between them like a precious parcel. It wasn’t long before everyone was on even ground and stood looking up at the distance they’d traveled. Ruskin was astonished at how far they’d come and did a drawing of the trail—a beautiful, highly detailed sketch, which he sent to his parents. It became a minor exhibit later on, when the police brought their final prosecution.
At three forty-three precisely, they got to the railway.
Sanchez did a head count and led them on. The direction was obvious: to the left, the railway went into a copse. To the right, it shouldered around under the Edge, just as Ruskin had predicted, in the direction of the school. The only problem ahead now was the fact that a little way down the line was a tunnel. One can’t get lost in a tunnel—but it was very, very dark. Flashlights, perhaps? In every schoolboy’s blazer, surely, a pocket knife and a flashlight, along with conkers and pet mice? Alas, the Ribblestrop blazers were new and their owners had in them only crayons and a copy of the school rules. Had they stopped to study those rules they would have seen rule twelve: No Ribblestrop student will ever put him or herself in danger, or endanger the life of any other Ribblestrop student. A fatuously vague rule . . . so easy to break.
“Shall we hold hands?” said Ruskin, as they entered the tunnel.
The darkness drew them in and rule twelve was thus broken.
“Henry?” called Sanchez. “You stay at the back, yes? You whistle, and that way everyone stays in front of you. Okay?”
“How long is this tunnel?” said Henry, slowly.
“It’s not that long, actually,” said Ruskin. “We were told. Twenty miles rings a bell.”
“That’s too long,” said Caspar. He was sounding tearful. “I can’t walk that far!”
“Walk between the rails,” said Ruskin. “Then you really can’t get lost. And the sleepers are firm, too, you can sort of . . . get into a rhythm. Lucky they didn’t tear all this up when it went out of use. You’d think, really—” Ruskin’s voice took on an echo as they went deeper, “—you’d think really that people would want to salvage all the old materials. Let’s sing as we go: how about the school song? We can teach it to Sam again!”