Authors: Skelton-Matthew
Oxford
14
T
he sound of scratching woke
him,
something was trying to get in!
Blake opened his eyes and tore the covers from his body in a panic, remembering the camouflaged dragon he had glimpsed in the tree a few hours earlier.
His legs were tangled in a bed sheet, but he managed to scramble free and backed against the wall, breathing hard.
He gripped his pillow like a shield and stared at the window.
Nothing was there.
Nobody was trying to get in.
He rubbed his eyes.
The branches of the nearest tree had been stripped of their leaves by the storm last night and the dragon, if there had been one, had flown away.
His imagination must have been playing tricks on him.
He listened carefully, straining to hear anything over the sound of blood galloping in his ears.
Then, from somewhere outside, came the soft, scratching noise again.
He edged closer to the window and peered outside.
There, by the garden gate, stood a dog.
A scruffy gray dog with a wiry tail.
It was scratching at the post, as if beckoning him to come down.
Blake raked his hand through his hair, wondering what to do.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of yellow, streaking from the front of the house to the gate.
Duck!
What was she doing up so early?
He blinked in astonishment.
The dog wagged its tail, as if it had been expecting her all along, and then licked her face as she bent down to stroke it.
And then he remembered.
The dog belonged to the homeless man he had seen outside the bookshop.
He scanned the pavement for a sign of the strangely dressed figure, but couldn't see him anywhere.
What should he do?
It was too early to wake his mother and he knew he oughtn't to leave the house without her permission; yet surely a dog couldn’t be dangerous...
"Duck!" he hissed, watching helplessly as she started following the dog towards the main road, as if they had planned this little excursion together.
She didn't look back once.
"Oh, Duck!" he moaned, and dashed away from the window.
There was no time to lose.
He pulled on the same scruffy jeans, hooded sweatshirt and smelly socks from the day before and quickly tied his shoelaces, his fingers in knots.
Grabbing his coat from the back of a chair, he raced across the landing; then, remembering the dog's bandanna, he rushed back to retrieve it.
He glanced once more out of the window.
Duck was almost at the street corner.
Soon she would be out of sight.
"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered as he darted down the stairs.
He snatched the spare key from its hook — Duck had failed to take it — and ran outside.
The morning was frosty and cold, suffused with a soft white light like the milk bottles he almost tripped over on the doorstep.
Duck was visible a short distance ahead, a bright yellow sun battling her way through the mist.
Blake rushed after her, cursing her under his breath.
She showed no sign of letting up.
"Duck!" he yelled as she crossed the main road and followed the dog down a short slope towards the river, her little legs motoring quickly.
He braked sharply to avoid an oncoming bus that kicked up a spray of water against the curb and then, nerves buzzing, charged after her.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled when he finally caught up with her by the river.
The current was strong, flowing fast.
"Are you deaf or something?"
He clutched her fiercely by the arm and swung her round.
Her eyes were dark and puffy, ringed with shadow, as though she had been crying.
"What's wrong?" he said, taken aback.
"Let me go," she said weakly, and struggled against his grasp.
She managed to wriggle free.
"Look, I don't have time for this," he protested.
"You've got to get back before Mum wakes up."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said petulantly, and dug in her heels.
The dog whimpered and wagged its tail, confused.
Blake shook his head and kicked at the ground.
"Come on, Mum's going to be real mad if she finds out you're missing."
He tugged on her coat, but she wormed her arm free and left he sleeve dangling.
He let go.
"Fine, suit yourself," he said, changing his mind.
He took two large strides back towards the road and then checked behind him.
Normally, that would have worked; normally, his sister lost her nerve and followed.
But this time she headed in the opposite direction.
"Oh, for goodness sake," he cried out, exasperated, and rushed back to join her.
"Who's the baby now?" she sneered.
"I'm not a baby," he defended himself, "but Mum's going to be furious if you're not home by the time she gets up."
He glanced over his shoulder at a dark, creeper-covered house that was just visible through a gap in the trees.
It straddled a small brook that threaded away from the river.
An old wooden rowing boat had been moored alongside it.
Duck didn't say anything.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine."
She sounded anything but fine.
He looked at her again, concerned.
"OK, I couldn't sleep very well," she confided at last.
"I was thinking about the blank book and everything Professor
Jolyon
told
us
and then I heard the dog scratching at the door and I thought that... well, maybe... it could be important.
The homeless man could be in trouble."
The dog regarded them hopefully, its tail set on autopilot.
Without its red bandanna, it looked older and scruffier than Blake remembered and he felt sorry for it.
It was probably hungry, poor thing.
"Well, do you think we should tell Mum where we're going?" he asked, trying to maintain some semblance of responsibility.
"And where exactly is that?" she scoffed.
He looked around helplessly and shrugged.
On the north side of the river loomed a series of boxy boathouses, shrouded in mist, while an empty playing field stretched into the distance to his right.
"I don't know," he said at last, "but at least we could tell her about the dog — and maybe about the homeless man.
She might be able to help... if he really is in trouble."
Duck shook her head.
"Are you crazy?
She'd never let us go.
This is our only chance."
Blake bit his lip.
She had a point.
Their mother would never agree to an early morning expedition, no matter how important.
"But what if it's a trap?" he asked, replaying
Jolyon's
warning in his mind.
They could both be in danger.
"Yeah, right.
A dog is trying to kidnap us!
Just tell Mum you were trying to stop me," said Duck, marching after the dog, which once again led the way.
Blake remained where he was.
He was convinced the homeless man knew something about
Endymion
Spring
.
Perhaps he could even help them find it!
And yet his methods were more than a little unorthodox and Blake wasn't sure he could trust him.
"Well, let's just make this quick, OK?" he said, breaking into a trot to catch up.
He didn't want to admit that he was frightened — especially to his sister — but he wasn't going to turn back without her.
At the very least, he could defend her if something went wrong.
"Sure, whatever," she said, and wandered on ahead.
Against his better judgment, he followed.
A
The mist was thicker away from the city and swans glided towards them along the water in silver Vs, like ghostly ballerinas.
It was too early for rowers or joggers, and they were alone on the muddy path.
They meandered past boggy fields and yet more boathouses, where the colleges kept their long racing boats and sculls.
Blake could see the shadowy outline of the city's buildings growing ever more distant behind an avenue of trees on the far side of the river.
Its spires and domes dissolved in the dim light.
Yet hidden somewhere inside that impressive backdrop, he was convinced, lay the secret of
Endymion
Spring
, and he was determined to find it — no matter what it took.
Even if it meant opening every book and following every clue until he tracked it down.
The mud squelched underfoot and spattered against his jeans as he walked.
Duck had been sensible enough to put on boots, but she was cold.
The morning chill penetrated her thin raincoat and she shivered.
To be kind, he offered his jacket, which she accepted with a small, grateful smile.
She didn't say anything, but kept her eyes fixed ahead, her thoughts far away.
Was she envious because
Endymion
Spring
had singled him out for attention?
Or had she, too, heard what his mother had said last night — that they weren't going to be a family together after Christmas — and wanted to get her own back by disappearing?
He wasn't sure what to think; yet he was grateful for her company, a feeling that surprised him, even though he didn't mention it to her.
They trudged on in silence.
Behind them, a chorus of bells began to strike the hour.
Four, five... six o'clock.
A medley of bangs and bongs circled the city like a flock of iron birds.
Blake raised the hood of his top and squirreled his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders.
This world seemed strangely unreal to him this early in the morning — like a dream.
Mist clung to the trees on either side of the river like fragments of sleep, draping their silvery fronds in the murky water.
The sun, he noticed, was struggling to burn through the haze, but it was too weak.
Only a ring of dim gold leaked through the cloud.
Clumps of mud stuck to the soles of his shoes like hoofs.
Just when he was beginning to tire of walking, he spotted a small village on the brow of a hill overlooking a narrow waterway in the distance and heard a rush of water spilling through a weir.
It sounded like a waterfall.
A sign indicated they were entering
Iffley
Lock and
that cyclists
should dismount and dogs be kept of short leads.
The homeless man's dog paid no attention to the sign, but guided them over a stone bridge towards a strip of tarmac with neatly tended flowerbeds planted along its sides.
The children looked around them.
The water flowing into the lock was deep, black and flecked with leaves and litter.
Further along the river, a brightly painted longboat chugged upstream, leaving traces of coal-like smoke in the air.
And then they saw him.
The homeless man was seated at the bottom of a series of stone steps leading right down to the water's edge.
Several ducks squabbled for the bits of bread he tossed into the current.
He noticed the children, but did not get up.
"What do we do now?" whispered Blake.
"Join him, I guess."
"I'm not going down there," he answered, glancing at the man's stooped form.
"It could be dangerous.
If he wants to speak to us, he can come up."
They waited uneasily while the man continued feeding the birds.
Blake was relieved to see another figure on the opposite side of the lock:
a
lock-keeper
inspecting the moorings and other pieces of equipment, a coil of rope slung across his shoulder.
He noticed them and raised a hand in greeting.
"You needn't worry about her," he yelled across the water, indicating the dog.
"She doesn't need a leash.
She's a real softie, she is."
As he said this, the homeless man got up rather stiffly and mounted the steps towards the children.
Blake felt a splinter of fear run under his skin and pushed Duck behind him, to protect her.
The man was wearing the same mangy robe and furry nightcap as the other day.
Tall and gaunt, he carried a staff — a bit like a wizard.
The man and boy exchanged silent looks for a long, tremulous moment, and then the stranger led them towards a small clearing behind a cluster of trees close to the lock:
a private place where they could talk.
Blake checked to make sure that the
lock-keeper
was keeping an eye on them, just in case they needed help.
The man waved.
Duck, too, seemed to have lost some of her initial bravado.
Like Blake, she was probably wondering why they weren't safely tucked up in bed, fast asleep.
Anything could happen to them out here and no one would know.
Warily, they followed the man through the thin, nearly leafless trees.