Chasing the Valley (9 page)

I cross to the edge of our campsite and press a plate into the dirt. The earth is hard and frosty, but I wriggle the metal a little and squash it down with the palm of my hand. Then I move along several metres and plant the next plate, then the next. Soon, our campsite is surrounded by a pentagon: five magnetic plates, humming with invisible currents that should react to any hints of nearby magic.

‘Ready?' I say to the others.

Clementine steps aside, as though she's about to exit the circle. I don't blame her; who knows what effect my illusion will have inside a circle of magnets? But I reach out to stop her, ignoring her snarl as I dare to grab her sleeve.

‘You've got to stay here,' I remind her. ‘If this works, anyone outside the circle will lose sight of us.'

‘Don't you dare touch me, scruffer,' she says.

I release her sleeve. Clementine sneers at me but doesn't move.

‘When you're ready, Danika,' says Radnor.

I take a deep breath and bend down beside the nearest magnet. It's cold beneath my fingers, but if I close my eyes I can almost sense the power that hums inside it. My illusion power is still weak and mostly untamed, but the magnet slams against it as though it's made of metal itself.

I picture our campsite: every detail I can remember. The sleeping sacks among the leaves. The shapes of my companions. The stink of sweat and foxary musk in the evening air. I grab my illusion power – just like clenching a fist or sucking in my stomach – and imagine that the clearing is empty.

Nothing happens.

I open my eyes and glance around the circle, just to be sure. Nothing. Clementine crosses her arms, clearly not impressed.

I wet my lips. ‘I . . .'

‘Try again,' Radnor says.

I shut my eyes and try to refocus. But I'm suddenly very aware that the others are judging me. This is my chance to prove my worth to the crew. My fingers feel twitchy enough to slip off the magnet, and it's impossible to concentrate when –

I take a steadying breath. I can do this.

The campsite unfolds inside my mind: a wavering image, conjured from memory. I hold onto it for a long moment, filling in every little detail. Sleeping sacks. My crewmates' bodies. The sound of human breath on the air.

And then, with my mind as my paintbrush, I slowly re-colour the memory. Instead of humans and sleeping sacks, I picture chinks of light beneath the canopy. Tumbling leaves and the hiss of breeze. A thicket of branches and a scrabble of bird claws. The faintest scent of rot in the undergrowth . . . 

A hot spark stings my hand and I yelp. I yank my skin away from the magnet and open my eyes, half-afraid we'll be blasted into dust.

‘Nice job,' says Teddy, sounding impressed.

I glance around the circle. Everyone's limbs still seem to be intact and the campsite itself is safe and secure. But there's an odd ripple in the air, a gust of unnatural wind between the magnets. My illusion is skimming around the circle, again and again, keeping us hidden from those outside. ‘Hey, it worked!'

‘I should certainly hope so,' says Clementine.

When everyone has satisfied themselves that the magnets will hold my illusion, we settle down for the night. The only food in the packs is a loaf of bread, which Radnor distributes between us.

‘Shouldn't we save it?' I say.

He shakes his head. ‘No point. It's not gonna last long anyway. If everything goes to plan, we should find the river tomorrow and get out of this forest.'

‘And there'll be something to eat at the river?' says Teddy.

Radnor shrugs. ‘Fish, maybe. Water plants.'

I think of the slimy riverweed that hawkers sold in Rourton's market. Richies would buy it sometimes for their pet fish: tiny creatures that lived in glass bowls and were purely for decoration. I always felt a bit sorry for those fish, endlessly trapped, swimming in circles with no hope of escape.

Clementine prods her food with distaste. ‘This bread is stale.'

I bite into my own chunk. It's a little chewy, maybe, but it's better than a lot of bread I've eaten over the years. There are sesame seeds across the top and crumbs gather in a satisfying clump on the backs of my teeth. I wonder what Clementine is used to eating, if she can afford to look down on decent bread like this. Maybe her family were the type of richies to throw away perfectly good food. Maybe I've even scrounged bread or biscuits from their bin, never knowing the girls whose scraps would fill my belly.

The foxaries seem happy to strip bark and branches from the trees. It's a shame human stomachs aren't tough enough to thrive on that sort of food, or this bread would just be the entrée to a feast. As it is, I try to eat slowly, but my chunk is gone in a couple of minutes. I lick my fingers afterwards, straining to gather any hint of salt or crumbs among the dirt.

As the sky darkens, we settle into our sleeping sacks for the night. I'm careful to lie on my back and keep weight off my healing shoulder. The sacks are lined with thick fleece: warm, durable and very high quality. I would have killed for a sack like this back in Rourton, especially on the coldest winter nights.

‘I'll keep first watch,' says Radnor. ‘Any volunteers for the midnight shift?'

‘We don't need to keep watch. We've got an illusion to hide us,' says Clementine.

Radnor shakes his head. ‘Better safe than sorry. We need to know if any hunters come near – just in case they stumble into our circle by accident, or overhear us.' He pauses. ‘Or if Danika's illusion fails during the night.'

All I want to do is bury myself in my sleeping sack and pretend the world beyond our cosy campsite doesn't exist. But it's my responsibility to volunteer. After all, the others are putting their lives into my hands by trusting my illusion. The least I can do is try to keep them safe. So I raise my hand and Radnor promises to wake me when it's time.

Considering what I've experienced today – the burning hunter, the plane crash, the horrors of our chase through the forest – I don't expect to sleep. I figure I'll be kept awake by nerves, or the horrible memory of that dying hunter's scream. But exhaustion wins out and somehow I manage to slip into the dark.

 

 

 

 

When Radnor wakes me, the sky is black. The
only light comes from a cloud-streaked moon and a speckle of starlight above the trees.

‘Midnight,' he whispers. ‘Your watch, Danika.'

I fight back a groan and silently curse myself for volunteering. But I don't want Radnor to see any weakness – at this point, losing my spot on his crew would mean death. So I force a confident nod, pull myself out of my sleeping sack and tiptoe to the edge of our campsite. At least my knee feels notice­ably better; perhaps the wound is healing beneath its bandage.

Behind me, I hear a rustle of fabric as Radnor lowers himself down to sleep. The forest is quiet, but not silent. There's a whisper of night breeze in the canopy and the buzzing song of distant crickets. A couple of rats venture out from the bushes, but they scarper as soon as they smell the foxaries. I don't blame them. I'll admit the beasts look almost nice
when they're sleeping: huge bulks of fur, streaked orange beneath the moon. But still, it's hard not to focus on the claws.

Minutes fade into hours and clouds shift across the sky. I wish we'd decided to keep watch in pairs, because it's pretty lonely by myself. I stare at Teddy Nort, half-hoping he'll wake up and we can have a chat. Then I want to smack myself for being so selfish. Sleep is a valuable commodity and I have no right to steal it from Teddy. Being well-rested might help to keep him alive.

There's no real way to keep track of time – I've never owned a watch. But after years of living on the streets, I've learned to sense things. I can roughly tell by the chill in the air and the shift in the darkness how long it will be until morning. At this point, it seems years away.

Then I see it. Something moves across the sky: a rumple of wings, perhaps. But it's not alive. It's a flap of fabric on a string, silhouetted against the stars. I stand up abruptly, staring through patches in the canopy. It's a kite.

Some of the richie kids owned kites in Rourton – they flew them in summer, up above the smog and filth of the city streets. This isn't as large or decor­ative as the richie kites I've seen, but it's the same basic shape: a diamond on a string.

‘Radnor!' I hurry across and shake his shoulders.

He looks dazed for a moment, but recovers within seconds. Then he's sitting up, alert and charged, as though we're under attack. ‘Where? What?'

‘Up there,' I whisper, pointing.

He frowns and squints. ‘Is that a kite?'

‘I think so.'

We cross to the edge of our campsite, angling for a better look. It's hard to see much through the trees, but the kite is only about fifty metres away. Whoever is flying it must be hidden in the forest and close enough to attack us if they stumble across our camp.

Radnor grabs my sleeve. ‘Don't step outside the circle, Danika.'

‘But what if it's another refugee? Shouldn't we go and check?'

‘No. It's not a refugee.'

‘How do you know?'

Radnor gives the kite a dark look. ‘They'd be a suicidal refugee to fly a kite around here. Who's stupid enough to draw the hunters in like that?'

I don't respond.

‘That thing is a trap,' says Radnor. ‘A trap for
us
, to lure us out into the open.'

‘What if it's Hackel?'

Radnor shakes his head. ‘Hackel's not an idiot. Anyway, where would he get a kite from in the middle of the forest?'

‘Good point.'

‘I bet it's the hunters,' Radnor says. ‘They're trying to make us curious, make us do something stupid. Maybe they think we're so desperate for supplies that we'll risk going out there.' He gives a bitter laugh. ‘It's not like they'd have high opinions of a scruffer crew's intelligence.'

As we watch, the kite dips lower in the sky. It moves jerkily, as though its owner is reeling it in against the pull of the wind. Soon it dips below the trees and out of sight, leaving an empty patch of stars.

‘So, we're not leaving the circle, then?' I say.

‘We're staying put,' says Radnor. ‘But I'll keep watch for the rest of the night. You should go back to sleep.'

‘It's my watch,' I protest, frowning. ‘You've already been on watch tonight – you're the one whose turn it is to rest.'

Radnor shakes his head. ‘It's my job to lead this crew, Danika. I'm not letting you guard alone while the enemy's so close.'

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in. After all we've been through, Radnor still doesn't trust me. I scowl. ‘I'm capable of keeping watch, you know.'

‘Maybe you are, maybe you're not,' says Radnor. ‘And if you want to stay up too, that's your choice. But I'm guarding this camp tonight, no matter what, so you'll just be wasting sleep-time for nothing.'

I almost plant myself in the dirt, determined to stay on watch beside him. But I've spent too many years on the streets to underestimate the value of sleep. In Rourton, if you try to fight the tiredness, you die. I've seen it before: kids passed out behind rubbish bins, too cold and weary to haul their bodies out of the frost. They should have rested earlier, when they were still alert enough to find a safer nook or cranny. I always helped them into a doorway, gave them any scraps I had left, but sometimes kids died without anyone spotting them in time. In Rourton, tiredness is a carnivore. All you can do is force yourself to stay rested, try to keep fed and hope it doesn't catch you.

‘Fine,' I say through gritted teeth. ‘But if you change your mind, wake me up.'

Radnor nods, but I know it's a lie. He'll never wake me now; it would be a sign of weakness, revealing he's not the super-tough leader he likes to pretend he is. I've only known Radnor for a few days, but I'm starting to suspect he's as stubborn as I am.

Maybe even more stubborn, actually. Because I'm not stupid enough to throw away my chance of survival just to make a point.

I slink back to my sleeping sack and wriggle into the fabric. It's warm and snug, and doesn't take long to absorb the heat of my body. Then I close my eyes, slow my breathing and try to think of the Magnetic Valley. I try to picture green hills and distant cities and earth that keeps the king's own army at bay. But all I can picture is a kite fluttering across the dark.

 

In the morning, I'm the first to wake. I glance
around the campsite and see that Radnor has dozed off. For a second I'm furious – what if we'd been attacked? – but then I see the bags beneath his eyes and sigh. He obviously needed the sleep.

I stagger down to the creek to wash my face. As soon as I step beyond the circle, the image of my crew vanishes behind me. I'm secretly a little proud of my illusion's staying power, even if the magnets had much more to do with it than my skill did. The foxaries growl as I pass and my stomach growls back at them.

‘Hey, fellas,' I whisper. I'm not afraid of the foxaries, but I'm not stupid either, so I keep at least a metre away from their mouths as I pass.

Down at the creek, I dip my hands into the water. It's icy this morning and it bites my fingers. My skin is reddening already, stinging from the frost. I pull my dripping hands away and shake them, then thrust the fingers into my mouth and suck, trying to warm them up again. The only result is numbness, which I suppose is an improvement on pain. It's not worth washing my face this morning, I decide. The last thing I need is a frostbitten nose.

I peel the bandage from my knee and clean my wound, which is healing fairly well in the circumstances. I stuff my hands into my trouser pockets, rub them against my thighs through the fabric and hurry back to the group. It takes a few false tries to find our campsite, since it's still shrouded by my illusion and the trees all look the same.

We knew yesterday, when we finished the bread, that there'd be no more food for a while. Even so, it's hard to accept that I won't get breakfast today. In Rourton, getting a meal is never impossible. The meal might be some cheap fried crickets, or stale crackers from a richie's rubbish bin, but at least there's always
something
to eat if you're desperate.

Out here there's only the frost, and crackling leaves and twigs that taste like soggy cardboard.

I force my numb fingers to move and grab a fistful of leaves from the ground. Then I stoke the fire into life and boil some water in an old billy can. The water takes forever to heat up, but eventually I'm rewarded with a faint spiral of steam to defrost my hands. I toss some leaves into the water and stir them with a stick.

‘What're you doing?' says Teddy. He's sitting halfway up in his sleeping sack, propped on his elbows. His nose is bright red. My own must look the same; it certainly stings enough.

‘Making tea,' I say.

Teddy sniffs the steam and pulls a face. ‘Tea or leaf soup?'

‘Aren't they the same thing?'

Teddy shrugs. ‘Can I have some?'

I scoop out a serving of tea and lean over to hand it across. Teddy sits up properly, sniffs the tea and takes a sip. I sit in silence, waiting for the verdict.

Teddy pulls his face into a pompous scowl, raises one eyebrow and speaks in a perfect imitation of the richie girls' posh accent. ‘I do say, Miss Glynn, you have evoked a fine bouquet of natural aromas. This seems a rather fine beverage, best served with a gourmet banquet of sticks and tree-bark.'

I snort and throw a fistful of leaves at him. They eddy down pitifully, about a foot away from my own body.

‘Ooh, I'm terrified,' he says. ‘A leaf-throwing monster is after me.'

‘Hey, leaves could be deadlier than they look.'

Teddy gives a pointed gesture at his jar of leaf tea. ‘Oh, believe me, I know.'

I try to look grouchy, but can't help snickering at the distasteful wrinkling of his red nose when he risks another sip. ‘That bad, huh?'

‘Well, better than nothing,' says Teddy.

I sip my own tea. It tastes like leafy water, but at least it's warm. I roll each mouthful around my tongue, trying to defrost my body and soothe my growing hunger.

‘We'll get some proper food today,' says Teddy.

‘How?'

‘I dunno, we'll rob a farmhouse or something. There's gotta be a little cottage in these woods. I mean, if there's not, then a hell of a lot of storybooks have been lying to me.'

I picture a toddler-sized Teddy Nort wrapped up in bed while his parents read a bedtime story. It's almost impossible to reconcile this image with the brash boy in front of me, who'd sooner rob a woodside cottage than listen to sweet little stories about it. Teddy Nort is such a legendary figure among Rourton's scruffers that it's odd to think he hasn't always been there. The legends make it seem as if he just sprang from the cobblestones: Rourton's infamous teenage pickpocket, fully formed and ready to cause mayhem.

Once everyone's awake and had a sip of tea – with varying attempts to hide their distaste – we load up the foxaries to head on our way. Maisy's fingers have turned red in the cold and swollen up like sausages. We knot Clementine's extra clothes – silken blouses, cashmere socks and designer skirts – like overgrown gloves around Maisy's hands.

‘Thanks,' she says, looking miserable.

‘It's just her bad circulation,' says Clementine. ‘Maisy always gets fat fingers in winter – even at home by the fire.'

I can't help feeling a stab of pity. No matter what I think of the spoiled richies, it's obvious that Maisy's in a lot of pain. After a life of privilege, it can't be easy suddenly to be thrust out into the cold.

I gather up the magnets that surround our camp; as soon as I've moved the first one, it feels as though something snaps inside the air. The circle is broken and my illusion is gone.

‘Where are we going?' I ask Radnor as we mount our foxaries.

‘To the river. We should reach it this afternoon, if everything goes to plan.'