The Color of Darkness (6 page)

“Mum!” the squeak clearly said. “Mum! Mum! Feed me!” The young woodpecker bounced up to its mother with its beak open. “Mum! Feed me! I'm hungry!”

The mother woodpecker sighed and stuffed a few ants into its beak.

“Mummy! I only like fat ants, and these are thin! Get me fat ants!”

“Stick your beak in the ground, you useless bunch of fluff,” said the mother woodpecker tartly. “It's not the science of flight, for tweeting out loud. Just stick your beak in and get the fat ants yourself.”

Tom grinned to himself. Not every sound was a cry of pain, then. And his grin broadened as he thought about it: he, Tom Fletcher, could understand the woodpeckers, the owls, the badgers, the starlings, and the sparrows—every single thing they said. He had spent the past year learning the calls of hundreds of birds and animals. Last week, after days of struggle, he had come to understand the endless poetry of the skylarks, who sang for hours as they soared over the wide fields. Yesterday, he had pretty much got to grips with the crows.

One day soon, he would understand every creature that shared his land, or flew in the skies above him.

He was thinking about this so strongly that he didn't notice how the woodpeckers froze and shrank into the shade of the tree trunks when the man stepped out of Hangman's Wood. All Tom noticed was that Sammael was back—Sammael, whom he'd met a year ago, and who'd given him the book of bird and animal calls that had led him to this happiness.

His heart leapt with joy as he saw the tall figure in the white shirt.

“Hello!” he called out. “You've found me again! Welcome to my farm!”

Sammael came forward with an open, smiling face. He shook Tom's hand in a vigorous way.

“Hello! How's it going? You still having fun with that book?”

Tom grinned. “Never put it down. I'm almost at the end, would you believe it? A handful of pages left. How lucky you came up here today! What brings you?”

“Ah.” Sammael cocked his head back toward the woods. “Please excuse my trespass. I'm looking for badger setts. I think there's some baiters around—I found a new sett earthed up, down in that little copse on the other side of the valley. Thought I'd check up here.”

Tom realized that his hand had clenched around Sammael's and he pulled it away quickly.

“They've been here,” he said, and the sunshine seemed to fade.

“Already?”

“Last night. I saw them. They killed a pregnant sow by the sett at the top of the wood. Evil men.”

Sammael's face, too, lost its cheerful air and became pinched.

“Evil is one word for it. I could think of a few others.”

“So could I,” said Tom. “But what's the use? People like that—”

“Oh, come now.” Sammael raised an eyebrow. “You can't be thinking of letting them get away with it?”

Tom reached out to the fence post, more just to touch something solid than because he really needed to lean on it.

“No!” he said. “Of course not! I just … I don't know what to do. I knew they were coming last night. My mate told me. I tried calling the police, but they wouldn't do anything. So we went up there and waited. I even took my shotgun, but I couldn't shoot at the fight in case I hit the badger, so I went for the guys but I missed, and then they turned one of the dogs on me. I had to run away. Stupid!”

Tom bit back a pointless curse and made himself loosen his grip on the fence post, trying to remember the feeling of listening to the woodpeckers. But it was right to be angry about cruelty. Maybe if he did shoot one of the men next time, he'd get away with arguing it was in self-defense.

As if he'd seen into Tom's thoughts, Sammael gave a bitter laugh. “A shotgun? That's a bit dramatic, isn't it? There's not much point in trying to fight angry men with dangerous dogs. You're bound to end up getting hurt yourself. I think you need to be a bit more creative.”

Tom eyed him, not liking the half smile on the older man's face. Was he being patronized?

“Oh yeah?” he said eventually. “How's that?”

“Well, isn't there someone who could help you? If you could get a few people together, the baiters might not want to take you all on.”

“There were two of us last night,” said Tom gloomily, thinking of Johnny White's panicked flight. “The other guy was the one who told me about them. But he got scared and ran away as soon as they let the dogs go.”

“What about your family? They own this farm, don't they? That brother you were looking for when I met you last summer—surely he'd be brave enough to help you?”

Tom snorted. “Danny? He's not my brother, he's my cousin, and he's scared of the sound of a leaf falling! And he doesn't care a fig about badgers. Maybe Mum might help, I don't know … I think she'd just keep calling the police, though. And my sister, Sophie, is at university now. She used to like animals, but she's not been near the woods since she discovered wedge heels.”

Sammael's lip curled in scorn. “And that's it? No giant brass-knuckled dad or tattooed uncles?”

Tom shook his head.

“Well then, we'll have to do it ourselves. What about your book?” Sammael indicated the thin paperback sticking out of Tom's tool bag. “Knowledge is a powerful tool, you know. Couldn't you start making use of your new knowledge?”

Tom frowned. “Understanding bird and animal calls? How's that going to help me stop dogs killing badgers? I can already understand the badgers, and it didn't help last night.”

“There's got to be a way,” said Sammael, looking toward the edge of the woods and falling into a thoughtful silence. Tom waited, and then a streak of sunlight caught the pale green hazel leaves and they blazed up for a second, shining with hope.

Sammael turned back to him. “I've got a sort of half-formed idea. But it would require some preparation. Maybe leave it with me, for now. Have you seen the kingfisher down at the Tybourne brook? I've just come up from there this morning—she was sitting on a willow branch over the stream when I left.”

Tom took his hand off the fence post to reach over for the book. He smoothed his fingers over the cover and read the title for the thousandth time: Nature at Your Fingertips.

“Kingfishers!” he said, flicking through the pages. “I haven't seen one since early spring. The stream at the bottom here is too shallow once the weather improves, so they don't come here later in the year. Where exactly was it?”

He found the page of the book, stroked it, and listened to the kingfisher's quiet calls. A vision of electric-blue plumage and a bright orange chest came strongly into his mind.

“I'll have to show you—it's difficult to describe,” said Sammael, shrugging. “I'll take you there one day, when you're not so busy.”

“Oh, this doesn't need to be finished now—it's more of a deterrent than anything else, and I know it won't really work. I can leave it for a bit, easy. Why don't we walk over to Tybourne now? It's only a couple of miles.”

Sammael looked doubtful. “If you're sure…”

“Yeah, of course. I learned the kingfishers' calls when they were here before, but I'm not sure I really got all of them. I've been wanting to check for ages. Come on, let's go!”

Tom picked up his T-shirt, laid the mallet down, and shoved the book into his pocket. He didn't bother getting his phone out to send a text to his mum. She wouldn't worry—it wasn't unusual for him to go wandering off. Sometimes you had to break free.

*   *   *

The kingfisher was still there. They watched as it swooped down over the brook and rose up to perch on the willow, waiting and then swooping again. The sun vanished, but even under the dull clouds the bird's feathers shone sapphire-bright.

“Easy does it,” it chirruped, settling back down onto its branch and staring into the water. And then, louder, in a single cry, “This branch is mine! Don't even
think
about it!”

Whatever bird it was calling to stayed hidden in the tangled copse behind the far bank of the stream, and Tom heard no answering challenge.

“Did you understand it?” asked Sammael, leaning back against the smooth trunk of a wild cherry tree.

“Every word,” said Tom. “They're quite easy, those calls. Very clear. I don't know why I thought I might not have got it right.”

“Ah, it's a good book, if I say so myself.” Sammael held out a hand, and Tom passed the small paperback over to him. Its brown cover was still clean, despite the thousands of times he'd thumbed through it.

Sammael opened the book, stroked a few odd pages and listened to them, then passed it back to Tom.

“The magic doesn't fade, does it? How far have you got?”

Tom smiled the forced little grin that he kept for occasions when he tried to ask himself how the book actually worked. The word
magic
was stupid. He couldn't think of another explanation for it, though. Stroking a book, feeling the pages turn into a bird or animal, and hearing the sounds of that creature—it shouldn't be possible. But that was what the book did, and he was happy with that unless he started to think about it too much.

He went for the more sensible question. “I've almost got to the end. There are so many groups of birds that share the same calls—it's sort of like dialects of the same language, isn't it? So it didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would. There are a few things left, though. Some animals, and golden eagles. They'll be hard—I need to find a real one to listen to, if I can. Recordings don't really work.”

“Ah, yes, I remember finding that when I was writing it. No, there's no real alternative to finding something out for yourself, is there? Well, that'll be an adventure for you, at least. Look!”

Sammael's finger flicked out toward the far bank of the brook, and there was the kingfisher, returning to its perch with a silver fish crushed in its sharp beak. The bird threw back its head and snapped the fish down into its orange throat, then rustled out its wings in satisfaction as the sun broke through the clouds.

“Brilliant!” whispered Tom. “She's so beautiful!”

Sammael dipped his head in acknowledgment, his eyes warm with delight. For a moment, both Tom and Sammael gazed across at the kingfisher, a glistening jewel against the dusty green willow leaves.

“But there are still so many ugly things in this world,” said Sammael. “Badger baiters, for a start.”

“Yeah.” Tom looked into the running brook. “Yeah, I haven't forgotten.”

The water bubbled darkly over the mud of the streambed. Tom noticed clumps of rotting grasses by his feet, teeming with squat black beetles, and the sun disappeared again. He shrugged and looked down the path toward home.

“Well, I'd better get on with that fence while I can. I want to be up in the woods again tonight, in case they come back.” He put the book in his pocket.

“I meant what I said,” said Sammael. “I think there's another way we can go about it. Leave it with me. I'll come and find you—tomorrow, say—and hopefully by then I'll have a fully formed plan B we can try.”

“We? You'll help me?”

“Of course.” Sammael nodded his dark head briefly. “I want them stopped as much as you do. Till tomorrow, then. Good luck tonight. Stay safe.”

He walked away from the bank, his feet making so little noise on the rushes and grasses that the kingfisher sat undisturbed on its willow branch until Sammael's white shirt and scuffed boots were well out of sight.

And then Tom moved, and at the first rustle of his shoe against a twig, the little blue bird leapt from its branch and flew off into the safety of the trees.

 

CHAPTER 7

DANNY O'NEILL

“That's him over there,” said Cath. “On the bike.”

The boy coming out of the alleyway was scrawny with close-cut brown hair. His bike was shiny and new and too big for him. As he swung the bike around and pedaled out across the road, Cath saw that his helmet was clipped through the straps of his schoolbag. Trying not to look like a geek. Failing.

She opened her mouth to call out to him.

“Danny!”

But another voice got there first, a boy's, and the tone was slow and mocking.

“Oi! Dan-nee! Danny Oh-Neeill! Oi!”

The boy was walking with a small group of others. It was Paul Barnes, who Cath would have said was Danny's friend. But Danny wasn't turning his head. His face was set steely pink, and his eyes looked straight ahead. He stood up on his pedals to push them faster.

“Oi!” yelled Paul. “I'm talking to you, weirdo!”

The group with Paul laughed. He picked up a stone from the pavement and chucked it at Danny. With deadly accuracy, or perhaps just luck, it hit Danny on the butt. Everyone screamed with laughter.

“Want to talk to the trees?” shouted one of the girls. “Here!”