Toby Alone

  The last Thing had been caught trying to escape the enclosure. Nobody knew exactly what happened to him after that, but his little sister Lala, the only family he had left, had received a letter announcing his disappearance. And the only explanation she got was two words: “Walk interrupted.”

  The Thing before that one had died during a game in which he was forced to eat both his shoes. He’d had a spot of trouble keeping the final lace down. The official cause of death was “indigestion”.

  Thing lived in dread of coming to a sticky end too. His only chance was to do everything to the best of his ability. He did whatever anyone told him to do, running from one task to another, doing the washing-up for fifty people, eating his hat if he was asked to. But his colleagues had sworn to have his skin just like the others, and his duties were getting harder and harder.

  “Finishing off a Thing,” as it was called, was a popular sport inside the Enclosure. It was all about pushing a Thing to his limit. Making him crack. Rolok had finished off the last two Things. He was always bragging about it, and had scratched a cross in his hat for each victim.

  This Thing had made a mistake. Just one. He had lost his whip somewhere in the mud. If anyone told the boss, the game was up. So he was trying to stay away from Rolok the Terrible.

  When he saw Rolok in the distance, cold sweat started trickling down the back of Thing’s neck. The boss was wandering in front of the deserted gallery. He still hadn’t yet noticed Thing, who turned away and huddled over his box to avoid being recognised.

  So Thing had been right not to believe the others. That story about Rolok being in his birthday suit in the Crater was an outright lie. Because here he was, just behind him, with his hat pushed down on his head. Still, they’d all gone off to that wretched Crater. Were they setting up another trap for him?

  Thing was crouching behind his box, head tucked in. Suddenly he heard a voice, Rolok’s voice, addressing his back.

  “I’m looking for someone called Thing.”

  Thing gave a muffled answer.

  “That’s me.”

  He took his time before turning around.

  The next minute happened in slow motion. If there had been a witness to this scene, who was familiar with life inside the Enclosure, they wouldn’t have believed their eyes.

  Nothing like it had ever taken place there before.

  Thing turned his head slowly.

  There was Rolok standing in front of him, his hat pushed down almost to his chin. Thing cowered. But Rolok began to stagger backwards, as if he was having a dizzy spell. Thing blinked. What the devil was Rolok up to now?

  Next, Thing saw the short man come to a halt and whip off his hat. Shock and astonishment! It wasn’t Rolok’s yellow face under that hat at all. But a likeable and familiar face. The face of a thirteen-year-old boy – Toby Lolness, the boy from the Low Branches, the most wanted fugitive in the Tree – Toby!

  Thing stood up. His body drew itself up to its full height for the first time since he had entered the dreaded Enclosure. He even opened his arms wide.

  But the most extraordinary was still to come. To begin with, Toby just stood there, totally taken aback, but little by little his face lit up. A stunned smile spread across his eyes and then his cheeks.

  In one jump, Toby leapt into the open arms.

  “Mano, is that you, Mano?”

  Thing held him tight.

  “No, Toby … it’s not me any more.”

  They stayed like that for a while, hugging each other. Neither of them had held a friend in his arms for a long time. It was as if the air crackled around this simple gesture. Time was ticking dangerously by. It was broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. Someone might pop up at any moment, but they felt protected.

  Eventually, Toby whispered, “What are you doing here, Mano Asseldor? Your letters … in your letters you said…”

  “Yes,” said Mano, in a choked voice. “Didn’t my family enjoy those letters?”

  “But it was all made up!” exclaimed Toby. “You’re slave to Joe Mitch’s worst slaves… You lied!”

  “Toby! Weren’t they happy to get those letters?”

  Toby fell quiet. Mano had invented the whole story so his family could carry on dreaming. He had failed everywhere, wandered about for weeks on end, begging for a bowl of sapwood porridge. And then he’d been taken on at Joe Mitch’s. The last stop for outlaws and dropouts.

  As he wrote those letters, he had made up another life for himself working in sales – a glorious life. The life he would like to have lived, the kind that makes your parents, your brothers, your two darling sisters proud.

  “I’m taking you with me, Mano,” said Toby.

  Mano didn’t say anything.

  “I’m taking you with me. I’m going back to the Low Branches. Everybody will be so happy to see you.”

  “It’s too late,” Mano replied. “Leave me here … don’t say a word to anyone. Forget you ever saw me.”

  Toby pulled back sharply from the Asseldor son.

  “Never! I’ll never leave you. Hurry up, they’ll be back soon. Rolok will raise the alarm.”

  “No.”

  “Hurry up, Mano. They’re coming. I know how to get out of here. We’ll be at Seldor tomorrow.”

  “You don’t know about shame, Toby. It’s worse than death.”

  “That’s not true. Nothing could be worse than here.”

  Toby tugged Mano’s arm. The sound of shouting started to rise up from the Crater in the distance. They couldn’t stay where they were. Toby grabbed a wooden club that was lying on the ground in front of the dormitory. Holding it with both hands, he raised it up high and brought it crashing down on Big Marlon’s great box. It smashed into lots of tiny pieces. Stunned, Mano watched him and cried out, “The box!”

  “Seeing as fear seems to be the only thing that motivates you.”

  “What am I meant to say to Big Marlon?”

  “Up to you. I’m off. Goodbye, Mano.”

  He started running, but Mano called him back: “Toby! Wait.”

  Toby stopped. He saw Mano bend down, pick up the club, and violently smash the remains of Big Marlon’s box. Mano was raining down blow after blow, without stopping, until there were just tiny scraps left on the ground, and still he kept on going. Toby took hold of his arm.

  “That’s enough. Come with me now.”

  The pair set off. The shouting behind them was getting nearer. But when they made it through the hole in the fencing, they paused for a moment.

  “Thank you, Toby,” whispered Mano.

  Toby had taken off his coat and hurled it to the ground. Mano did the same. They threw their hats into the air.

  “We’re going home,” Toby said simply.

  And they raced towards freedom.

  When the men chasing Mano Asseldor and Toby Lolness reached the hole in the fence, they were ordered to pause their search. Rolok reassembled his troops.

  There were ten rows of four or five men. Rolok appeared before them, dressed in a bathrobe that reached his ankles and kept tripping him up. Rolok wasn’t yellow any more, he was transparent. His purple lips were tight as a fly’s bum.

  He passed in front of the troops, who were desperately trying to keep a straight face.

  Rolok had categorically refused to explain how he had ended up without a stitch of clothing on him in the Crater, surrounded by the herd of weevils. The only thing he admitted was that Toby had been involved. They had got him out of there in his shock and on a stretcher, and the rejoicing troop had accompanied their boss all the way to the dormitories.

  Now he was trying not to faint with embarrassment in front of his assembled men. And, above all, in front of Joe Mitch, who appeared in the entrance to the tunnel, framed by his two shadows, Torn and Razor.

  Joe Mitch had travelled down from the woodcutters’ clearing, to find his Enclosure in a state of near-chaos. He was speechless with anger and having trouble breathing; in fact he would have gla
dly strangled someone…

  Razor gave him the news that Thing had also disappeared. Everybody grinned as they turned to face Big Marlon, who was bright red and squirming in his seat.

  His smashed box had just been discovered. He had always led people to believe that it was full of weapons and knives, but the tiny bits and pieces that had been found revealed the remains of toys for small children: a humming-top, some dominos, moss dolls, a card signed Mummy and, in big flowery handwriting, For my darling Marlonnikins, who still likes playing with his toysy-woisies.

  Big Marlon no longer had the same effect on his colleagues. In fact, he didn’t seem nearly so “big” now that he’d been made to look ridiculous.

  Another man stepped forward, with a coat in his hand. He held it out to Joe Mitch.

  “We found this behind the fence too. Toby Lolness must have used it to make his getaway. There’s a label with a name on it: W. C. Rolok.”

  Joe Mitch signalled to Torn, who took the coat. All eyes were on Rolok, who looked like a spat-out sweet, stuck inside a dressing gown.

  Torn interrogated Rolok: “Does this ring any bells?”

  “I… I… Yes, that’s my name, I think…”

  “No!” exploded Mitch.

  He made for Torn, shaking his head. “No,” he kept spitting, as he snatched the coat and stared at the label. His big fat jowls flapped as he moved left to right.

  “Yes it is!” groaned Rolok. “I swear that’s my name.”

  “No,” Mitch snapped back.

  “But, Friendly Neighbour, you know perfectly that I’m Rolok. W. C. Rolok, your head of weevil farming.”

  Joe Mitch was already heading off. And Torn and Razor were keeping their distance from Rolok.

  “Pleeeease,” whimpered Rolok, “have some pity! Who am I, then? Who am I? What’s my name?”

  Joe Mitch turned round one last time. Belching as only he could, he answered.

  One word was enough: “Thing.”

  13

  The Black Widow

  Joe Mitch’s weevil farm was only a few hours away from the Low Branches, which meant that Mano had spent the past months very close to the paradise of Seldor, and to his family. But he had been separated from them by the highest rampart of all: shame.

  Now, as they made their way towards the Low Branches, Mano was starting to get his hopes up again. He was even learning a real lesson in confidence and bravery from Toby, his young guide.

  Every now and then, however, he couldn’t help seeing this boy in a different light, as he twirled between the branches ahead. Who was he exactly?

  The Toby who Mano knew came from the Treetop. He had turned up in the Low Branches when he was barely seven, with his parents and nothing else. Mano had watched this Toby-of-the-Low-Branches grow into a cheeky, nimble boy, a will-o’-the-wisp, who was curious about everything, and who would turn up at Seldor with shining eyes. But there was a third Toby, the one everybody had been talking about for days now.

  Mano had heard the rumours about the most recent events in the life of the Lolness family. He had learned that they had gone back up to the Treetop, but he didn’t know why. And then he had found out about the tragedy, the so-called “treason of the Lolness family.” People were talking about a “plot against the Tree,” about an “unpardonable crime.” A single family, the Lolnesses, had betrayed the rest of the Tree. They had been condemned to die, but the Grand Tree Council had intervened to reduce the death penalty of the three guilty parties to life imprisonment. If he was found, Toby would have to rejoin his parents in captivity. But most people expected a harsher sentence to be imposed, because the Grand Council was gradually losing all its influence over the Neighbourhood Committees.

  One day, the Lolness family would be executed, no doubt about it.

  While he stopped to catch his breath, it occurred to Mano that he might be following a dangerous terrorist. But when Toby turned to face him, Mano saw the same bright pair of eyes he had always seen. Toby was a thirteen-year-old boy who leapt about barefoot and was alert to his companion’s every hesitation, pointing out the dangerous slip-branches, and letting him drink first when they found a puddle. In the end, Mano had to admit he trusted Toby more than Joe Mitch and his infamous Neighbourhood Committees.

  When he had arrived up at the Heights three years earlier, lost and without a penny to his name, Mano had witnessed the rise in power of the Neighbourhood Committees.

  At the time, these consisted of just a few community groups who, on seeing the increase in the Tree’s population, had got together to defend their areas of the branches. Joe Mitch had been quick to get behind them. He was a fat weevil farmer, incapable of pronouncing words of more than one syllable. But, after six months of lessons, he had learned a five-syllable word – “so-li-da-ri-ty” – a word that was long but magical. Joe Mitch hung around the branches saying “solidarity” over and over again, and shaking people’s hands.

  Everybody was astonished that such a successful man should spend his days saying “solidarity” in the branches. As a matter of fact, what Mitch actually said was more along the lines of “sodilarity” or “sorryladdity”, but it all sounded the same to the crowd.

  One day, even though he’d only just turned up in the Heights, Mano had managed to shake Joe Mitch’s hand. It had made a big impression on him. A recent, starving immigrant, Mano had shaken the fat, limp, sweaty hand of success. Yes, Mitch had something. He was close to the people.

  Joe Mitch had then proposed his Popular Plan for Friendly Neighbourhoods to the Neighbourhood Committees.

  At the start of each branch, he offered to dig huge Welcome Housing Projects for free. As it turned out, these were just a series of holes, like worm-eaten wood, where all the people on the housing list were dumped. That way, life in the traditional neighbourhoods wasn’t spoiled. The Neighbourhood Committees would collect half of the rent, the other half was payable to the builder’s company, Joe Mitch Arbor.

  A glance at the election results showed that everybody was enthusiastic about this generous proposal. Moreover, those who weren’t so enthusiastic weren’t invited to vote.

  Joe Mitch’s weevils flooded into the branches to dig the Welcome Housing Projects. Mano picked up a bit of work on building sites during that period. He even got to eat a meal from time to time, and to sleep in the dry. This was when he was slipping sentences into his letters such as, My assistant’s calling me, I’d better go or I’ve got a young lodger at the moment, she’s an economics researcher who I’ve taken a bit of a shine to. All made up. If he’d been honest with his family, he would have written, Today, I boiled up the end of my belt. It didn’t taste so bad. I miss you. I want to come back home.

  The final stage of the Mitch Plan had the Grand Tree Council in its sights. Little by little, Joe Mitch was managing to weaken the Council and make it look ridiculous. All he had to do was pepper his speeches with a bit of word play, or over-emphasise the first syllable of Ass-embly. People would say the “dumb-ass ass-embly”. They started referring to the elders as “the asses from the dumb-ass ass-embly,” and then “old Rolden’s losing his head,” and finally “that bunch of old logs,” or “those old fossils.”

  Since Joe Mitch himself was part of the Council, people thought his outspoken criticism was very brave. They would say things such as, “Joe Mitch speaks for the people. He takes risks.”

  Finally, he resigned from the Council. As he walked out, he spat on councillor Rolden. A few idiots even insisted it was really brave to spit on a ninety-eight-year-old man who was a symbol of the Old System.

  No sooner had Joe Mitch spat than everyone stopped listening to the Grand Council. All eyes were on the Neighbourhood Committees, which drew up new laws on a daily basis. This was when Joe Mitch was named “Friendly Neighbour.” He presided over all the Neighbourhood Committees. The motion to ban books and newspapers was finally voted in.

  Mano quickly understood Mitch’s method. It went against everything his family had t
aught him at Seldor. But hunger and fear outweighed everything. He became a volunteer at Joe Mitch Arbor.

  And so Mano became a slave to fear. Compared to him, young Toby, who was being hunted down, with a ransom on his head and troops on his heels, was freer than a butterfly.

  Night fell. When you’re as low down as Toby and Mano were in the branches, you hardly notice changes in the moon. But from the pale glimmer that lit their path, Toby guessed it had to be in its first quarter. The last few nights had been pitch-black, so now the moon would be waxing for the next two weeks. A distant rumbling announced a thunderstorm. The shadows around them were exaggerated by lightning. The moon was already disappearing.

  Toby pulled his collar up. Behind him, he heard, “Toby…”

  “Yes, Mano?”

  “You don’t have a tie to lend me, by any chance?”

  Toby couldn’t believe his ears.

  “A tie, Mano?”

  “When you’re in sales, you wear a tie. I need a tie to go to my parents’ house.”

  Toby stopped in his tracks.

  “Mano—”

  “I’ll tell my family I’ve taken a few days off to come and visit. I don’t want to tell them the whole truth straightaway.”

  Toby had twigged what was going on, “You’re not going to start lying to them again?”

  “I … um … I’ll tell them the whole story one day.”

  Mano was interrupted by a crash of thunder. The storm was heading their way. Toby turned back to face him.

  “Do you mean to say I risked my life for a liar, and that right now I’m helping a liar get back home? Is that it?”

  “I’m not doing it for me,” Mano explained. “I just don’t want to give them a shock.”

  “Fine, Mano. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Good luck!”

  Mano was looking down to see where to put his feet. When he looked up, he was all alone.

  “Toby? Are you there?”

  No. Toby wasn’t there. The shadow of a gigantic dead leaf passed over Mano. He was alone, in the middle of nowhere. He had no idea where he was, or where he was meant to be going. In a split-second Toby had melted into thin air.