‘I might.’
‘What about Captain Podmore?’
‘I’ve a notion his vessel musta been swamped by the flood,’ she said sadly. ‘Otherwise we’d surely have heard from him by now.’
Arun made no reply, but dug up six more roots.
‘Your dad walked to London thirty times, looking for you,’ Is said neutrally.
He burst out in irritation. ‘Yes, when it was too late! What use was that?’
Now it was her turn to remain silent.
Next day Arun stayed in the sorting-office helping Mrs Crockett pound up the evening-primrose roots, while Is went out on her own to search for wild garlic. This was always easy to find, for it grew in hilly bottoms around the source of springs, where the snow had mostly melted.
She was kneeling in some dead leaves, listening to the babble of the brook, peacefully grubbing up a handful of roots and feeling quite cheerful, since the Bottom Layer were making visible daily progress while good reports came from the apprentice train-drivers, when two hands holding something potent and choking closed over her nose and mouth. Simultaneously, a violent blow struck her on the back of her head. The snowy copse faded from her view, and she fell down into bottomless dark.
When she came back to consciousness it was still dark. And a long time had gone by, she felt certain; though it was hard to be certain of anything, because the effect of whatever had drugged her was lingering still. She could smell its harsh sweetness, and her tongue, throat and mental workings all seemed unnaturally clogged and slow. She tried to speak, tried to call for help in thought-language, but could do neither. She must, though, have made some sound or movement, for a voice said in satisfaction:
‘Good. She’s stirring at last. You gave her too much.’
‘What happened?’ Is crossly tried to say. ‘Why can’t I budge my hands?’
Impotently, she tried to move. No sound but a croak came from her lips. And her hands seemed to be chained behind her.
Someone struck a light. By the quick flash, Is could see stacks of dark books. I’m in the library, then, she thought. I came to rescue Mrs Macclesfield . . . but she ain’t here. No – that was before. That can’t be right.
The light grew and glimmered. Somebody had lit a candle.
‘Be that sensible, guvnor?’ doubtfully asked a voice – a vaguely familiar voice.
‘Deuce take it, of course it’s sensible. Just because you pulled me out of the water, don’t think you can teach me my business,’ scornfully retorted another voice, even more familiar. ‘They’re all eating carrots – sorting dead letters.’
’Uncle Roy!’ croaked Is, with immense difficulty finding her tongue.
‘Well, girl? Woke up at last?’
‘I thought you was supposed to be dead. Drown-dead.’
‘And you’re wholly sorry I’m not,’ he responded sourly.
She could hardly deny this. ‘Why – why – what are we doing here?’ she mumbled with difficulty. ‘In – in the library?’
‘Hah. You worked that out?’ He moved the candle and she could see his face – angry, aggressive Uncle Roy, mud-stained, blood-stained. Plainly, although not drowned, he had had quite a struggle to remain alive. I suppose Stritch saved him, Is thought. And got small thanks for it.
‘Grandpa had the laugh on you in the end,’ she uttered slowly.
‘The old devil!’ he burst out. ‘And that’s why you’re here, my girl. You’re going to tell me his secret, before I go off westwards. You and Ishie are the only two who know it.’ And you’re afraid of Ishie, Is thought. He went on: ‘If you don’t tell me – you’ll never leave here.’
‘Like Mrs Macclesfield? But Mrs Macclesfield did leave, Uncle Roy! Did you know – did you know – ’ talking was frightfully hard work, it was making her throat ache; what frightful potion could he have given her? – ‘did you know, Uncle Roy, that we can all talk to each other in thought-language? Mrs Macclesfield – Coppy – me and all the Bottom Layer – ’
‘Be silent!’ he shouted furiously. ‘I don’t want to listen to your crazy ramblings. I ought to be on my way to Cokehouses – now – I’ve money in the bank there, I can start again. I only want one thing, I want you to tell me – ’
‘If you please, guvnor, don’t shout!’ implored the other voice, which now Is was able to identify. It was that of Mr Stritch the train driver. Lemman had said he wouldn’t trust the man with a tin halfpenny, Is recollected. He was dead right. ‘You ain’t popular round here no more, you know that,’ humbly reminded Mr Stritch.
By the candle’s light Is studied Gold Kingy’s face. He allus did have a screw loose, she decided, and now he’s come downright untwisted. Don’t Stritch know that? But Stritch is none too bright either; maybe he thinks helping Gold Kingy is better than teaching a passel of kids to drive a train.
‘Listen!’ said Gold Kingy, bringing the candle closer to Is. ‘You know what I want. If you don’t tell me – and I’m not joking, I never joke – you’ll not be Is no more. You’ll be Was. First I’ll set fire to your hair; then I’ll set fire to the library. And after, do you know what I’m going to do? That train – my Playland Express – that train you’re so set on sending back south, with all those scrawny kids aboard that should be down below digging out the coal, my coal – scalp me, when I think of the trouble you’ve caused me, girl, one way and other, it’s all I can do not to split you like a haddock – ’
‘Don’t get frantic, guvnor, don’t!’ implored Stritch again. ‘Jest ask what you want to know and let’s be on our way to Cokehouses. Those kids make me nervous. If any of the colliers or the foundry-workers get a sight of you, they’ll toss you in the Wash river.’
‘That train – ’ repeated Gold Kingy furiously, without taking the least notice of Stritch, ‘there’s a hand-basin full of dynamite packed aboard, ready to blow it all sky-high as soon as the train leaves the station. If they don’t work for me, they shan’t work for anybody else. So you better tell me fast – ’
‘But, Uncle Roy – ’
Almost, Is felt sorry for the poor crazy creature. Though at the same time she was mortally afraid of him. He looked as dangerous as his own dynamite – ready to blow up at any moment, and blow up every-body else at the same time.
’Uncle Roy. Listen. Grandpa told you himself. It was the last thing he told you. Remember the rhyme? “As backward you go – “ How did it go on?’ She thought hard, slowly remembering.
‘As backward you go, take a turn round the pond
If threescore-and-ten you would pass beyond.’
‘What the flaming fiend are you going on about, girl?’ he almost screamed at her. ‘Don’t mumble that old monster’s gibberish to me!’
‘But he was telling you, Uncle Roy! “As backward” – that’s S.A. And “a turn round the pond’, that’s POOL backward – so the whole thing gives you saloop.’
‘Saloop? What the plague is that?’
‘Don’t you remember, Grandpa used to drink it every day. – Ask me,’ said Is, ‘I think Grandpa was just a tough old codger. I don’t reckon it was the saloop so much as his own ginger that kept him going; but maybe it was the saloop. Who knows? Anyhow, that was what he told you, his own self. Just before he died. So you better believe it.’
Uncle Roy was almost frothing at the mouth with fury and frustration.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he shouted. ‘Is that all? There must be something else – anyway, what is saloop?’
‘Guvnor, guvnor!’ implored Stritch.
‘It’s a kind of warm milky drink. Made from powdered orchid roots, Ishie said.’
‘Orchid roots? Where am I supposed to find them?’
‘Grandpa used to get his own. Maybe you’d get ’em from an apothecary,’ Is suggested.
She was ignored. Roy turned on Stritch.
‘You get me some! You just go out now, this instant, and find me some. Before we start for Cokehouses. And make haste.’
‘But, guvnor! What the plague do I know about
orchid roots? Digging up roots? What kind of a job is that for a goodhearted, sensible, able man?’ protested Stritch.
Uncle Roy’s answer came in a cold, terrible, crazy voice.
‘If you can’t dig up orchid roots, you’re no use to me.’
There was a swift movement in the dark, beyond the candle-flame, a fearful scream from Stritch.
‘Aaaaagh! Guvnor – ’ The scream was abruptly cut short.
Uncle Roy turned towards Is. She saw the red light reflected in his eyes, and on the blade that he held in his hand. ‘Now you – ’ he began.
But at that moment there were voices and footsteps close at hand. Thought-waves began to flash, almost unbearably loud – Is tried to clap her hands over her ears, failed, then almost laughed at herself, realising that the sound was inside, not outside. But there were spoken words as well.
‘Is? Are you there? Is that you?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m here!’ she called back shakily, and sent out rusty thought-patterns to give them her direction.
Uncle Roy turned, glared, the blade shook in his hand – then he suddenly vanished into the dark, sideways, crabwise, stooping; with the candle in his hand throwing grotesque shadows, he looked like a black dwarf. Next moment he was gone.
Another light approached. The glimmer of a lamp carried by Helen Macclesfield. With her came Coppy.
‘You’re alive! Oh, what a relief!’ Helen gave her a warm hug, and Coppy danced up and down.
‘But you’ll have to undo my hands,’ Is said. ‘They’re clamped on to the stack behind me.’
‘We all thought you must be dead,’ Helen said, grappling with the chain which was hooked over a bolt on the stack, while Coppy held the light for her. ‘We’d had no thought messages from you – nothing – we were so terribly worried; everybody thought you must have been drowned in a spate or buried in an avalanche.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Days and days! All the search parties had given up – then Coppy began to get faint peculiar messages – There! That’s got it undone.’
The chain pulled loose, and Is was able to rub her cramped hands.
‘Ugh!’ said Coppy, jumping back. ‘There’s a man on the floor here.’
‘Oh – yes – Stritch – poor stupid cove. But what’s worse – Uncle Roy’s on the loose around here, and he’s mad as a weaver. We’d best get outa here right away. He ain’t safe.’
They hurried out of the dark basement. Coppy led the way. Outside it was broad day. Is could hardly believe that she had been unconscious for so long.
‘Though it was mighty strong stuff, whatever they used to hocus me – I felt as if I’d been dead. Where are you ever taking me?’ she asked shakily, as Helen and Coppy, instead of making for the post office, turned uphill.
‘We thought you’d want to see the train do. There won’t be time to get to the station – but if we stand on the footbridge we can see it go by.’
They were leading her up to a point where a narrow footbridge, high above the track, spanned the deep cutting between embankments through which the railway track ran out from Blastburn station before it crossed the Wash river bridge.
‘The train’s going today?’
Is felt almost cheated. To send off the southbound train had been her idea – well, Arun’s – it seemed terribly unfair that the event should have been planned to take place in her absence. ‘Without me there?’
‘Don’t you see, everybody thought you must be dead. They were all dreadfully sad – they’ll be so relieved to know you are alive!’ Helen assured her. ‘There is a big ceremony down at the station, going on at this minute. Coppy was to have cut the ribbon, only then he began getting thought-waves and dragged me off to the library – didn’t you, Coppy?’
‘Iss!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Better find Is than cut a ribbon!’
Is suddenly stopped still in horror.
‘But it mustn’t start! It mustn’t! Oh – not because I’m not there – that don’t matter a button – but we must warn them, we must stop them! We’ve gotta run down – Coppy, you can run better – oh, plague take it, why am I so weak and wobbly – I can’t even send a proper thought-wave – ’
‘Why? What’s amiss?’
’Uncle Roy fixed a load of dynamite to blow up the train when it starts.’
Helen turned even whiter than her natural pallor. ‘Come, Coppy, we’ll both run. Is, you stay here – we’ll come back – ’
‘Send a thought-wave to someone!’ said Is. ‘I can’t, my head’s too muzzy yet – ’
But the cousins had raced off down the embankment, diagonally towards the mouth of the station, which could be seen in the distance with the red-and-gold engine just protruding from it.
Maybe there’s still time, thought Is. There must be.
Then she saw somebody – two people – climbing up the steep slope towards her. A long skinny boy and a man: her cousin Arun and Doctor Lemman.
‘The train’s dynamited!’ she shouted with all her strength as soon as they came within earshot.
But they shook their heads.
‘Don’t you fret, dearie; the boys found your Uncle Roy’s little surprise packet,’ said Lemman, striding up to her. He gave her a hug, and so did Arun. ‘They found it last night when they were giving the number-one engine its final polish. Old Roy will just have to be disappointed. — But, dearie, are we pleased to see you! Everyone thought you must have tumbled into a torrent, because the thought-waves were turned off. Aren’t we glad that you didn’t!’
‘Look,’ interrupted Arun seriously. ‘There she goes.’
With a tremendous yelling whistle of triumph, the Playland Express pulled, in a series of jerks and clanks, out of Blastburn station.
‘There’s five drivers on board, plus Gower with a message to the London government,’ said Lemman cheerfully. ‘They ought to do well enough + if they don’t run into floods, that is.’
Every window of the train was full of arms, legs, and heads; weaving, screaming, yelling, cheering.
‘It’s like a Wakes train,’ said Lemman.
Is could not help feeling a little sad. All her friends – the Bottom Layer that she had brought out of the dark – there they went. She might never see them again.
But that don’t matter, she thought then. We can still talk however far apart. And indeed a tremendous wave of warmth and friendship came up to her as the train approached the bridge, and she leaned over the rail, tossing her good wishes back and her love for all of them. It’s a huge family, she thought. It’s us! All over the country. And there’ll be more . . .
‘And they aren’t all going,’ said Arun, astonishing her by suddenly breaking into thought-speak. ‘Quite a parcel of them decided to stay here for a while at least and help rebuild Old Blastburn.’
‘Arun! You are talking in thoughts!’
‘Everybody else seemed to have the knack so I reckoned it was time I began.’ He gave her a teasing grin.
‘Oh, heavens! Look! Down on the track – ’ Is clutched Lemman’s arm in horror.
Down on the track was Gold Kingy, almost black-faced with rage, dancing, shouting and screaming inaudible curses, shaking his fists at the train which came implacably towards him.
‘Stop! I order you to stop! I command you to stop!’
They could see him mouthing the words, willing the order, as he had willed himself to walk on the water.
The train did not stop. It was going too fast, by now, for braking to make the least difference. The train tossed Gold Kingy indifferently to one side, and he flew through the air, over the parapet, and into the Wash river.
Lemman ran down to look over the wall, then shook his head, and began walking slowly back.
Now he’ll never be able to try saloop and see if it works for him, thought Is. But my guess is that it wouldn’t have. She could not feel the least regret for the death of her Uncle Roy; he had caused too much harm and misery.
Arun was saying so
mething about Captain Podmore.
‘Ship turned up last night. He’d been down at Plymouth; missed the worst of the tidal waves. We could sail with him tomorrow – he sometimes puts in at Folkestone, he says. He told me to tell you the king’s cousin – the new king – is a cove called the Duke of Battersea. Podmore thought you might be pleased. He’ll be King Simon the First.’
‘Oh, Arun, that’s right good news! Simon! Yes, he’ll make a prime king – he’s got real good sense. Funny, I knew he’d high-up connections, but I never knowed he was the king’s cousin.’
‘So what Davie did won’t have been wasted,’ said Arun.
‘We gotta see that it wasn’t wasted,’ said Is. And she started wondering where the token might be now.
‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ said Arun, putting a comfortable brotherly arm around Is, who still looked and felt very sick and shaky. ‘They’re starting to rebuild old Blastburn, and they’ve decided to change the name. And they’re going to call it Is – after that city Aunt Ishie told of, that once got drowned in the sea. ‘Why – dearie!’ – he had caught the trick from Lemman – ‘Why, dearie, what in the world is there in that to make you start crying – ?’
Joan Aiken, Is
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