A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (16 page)

‘Jeez!’ He said staring in disbelief at the crustless sandwich. ‘I don’t bloody believe it! Fish paste in brown bread.’ He sniffed it for confirmation, then looked across to Wren, still peering into his panniers. ‘What have you got?’ he demanded.

‘Marmite.’ Wren replied dully.

‘Jeez.’ Rhyllann repeated. Wrinkling his nose he bit into the sandwich, the pungent filing smearing the roof of his mouth, coating his teeth with a slimy film. He swallowed miserably, forcing it down, already debating about the next mouthful.

‘Joke!’ Wren held two plain white bags aloft in either hand – grease turning the paper translucent. Rhyllann caught a wonderful whiff of ‘Pasties!’ and lunged at Wren, swiping at his grinning face, snatching two of the bags.

Propping the bikes against the wall, they sat on a grass verge to bury their faces into the pasties. Chucks of chewy peppery meat mingled with fluffy potatoes and swede, strands of oily onions, wrapped in a pastry that melted into a satisfying stodginess. They grunted with pleasure, then sucked their fingers clean of grease. Before eating their seconds more slowly savouring every mouthful.

‘Next time check the saddle bags before you nick the bikes.’ Rhyllann scolded, still annoyed at having been tricked into eating fish paste. He got up to inspect Wren’s bags again, rewarded by a slab of saffron cake and a large bottle of orange squash.

‘Suppose coke would be too good to be true.’ He complained half heartedly.

‘I bet my bike belonged to fatty in the pink lycra.’ Wren said reaching over for his share of cake. Adding ‘Saffron’s more valuable than gold.’

Rhyllann didn’t bother to re-examine his panniers. He felt disgusted with his cyclist, and hoped the bartender ended up slapping him.

The two hills identified as Brown Willy and Roughtor now lay behind them.

‘Should we start heading back to the moor brawd? Looking for the Folly?’

Wren nodded, swinging a leg over his bike.

With a contented stomach and new energy pumping through him, Rhyllann jumped onto his bike, eager to see how quickly the lightweight racer could gobble up the miles on this lovely sunny day. He travelled a few yards before a jarring clatter followed by a dull thud brought him screeching to a halt.

Wren and bike lay entangled on the road.

‘What happened – did you fall?’

‘My foot Annie – I’m sorry – It just went.’

Wren's eyes were screwed in pain, and he grasped his leg just above the damaged foot with both hands, as though to touch it would be agony. Dragging Wren clear from the bike frame, Rhyllann rustled through his pockets. He gazed down at the empty bubble strips which had contained extra strength painkillers.

‘Jesus Wren – you’ve been gobbling them like smarties!’

Wren winced as he rocked himself. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Okay!’ He said angrily cradling his arms over his head and slumping his face against his updrawn knees. Rhyllann eased his trainer and sock off. Then steeled himself not to gasp. Wren’s foot looked as though someone had inserted a valve, then pumped and pumped until the skin stretched to bursting point.

‘Jeez – we’ll have to find a hospital.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Wren’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. ‘It’s swollen that’s all. Only because I pushed it too hard. It isn’t as painful as it looks.’

Rhyllann didn’t know what to say. Thoughts of blood poisoning and gangrene ran through his mind.

Wren read his mind again. ‘I won’t turn back. Not now.’

‘You stubborn little prick.’ Rhyllann blew out with exasperation. ‘Okay listen. We’ll make a deal. We’ll find somewhere to sleep – then in the morning – if it's no better you are going to a hospital.’

Wren said nothing, pushing out his lower jaw and glaring into the distance.

Rhyllann laughed. ‘You don’t get it do you? There’s no choice. I’ll turn us both in.’ If the stupid little sod wanting to risk losing a foot that was his lookout. However Rhyllann knew damn well who would get the blame.

With Wren balanced awkwardly on the crossbar, Rhyllann began pushing, determined to beg for help at the next village they reached. A van sped by almost knocking them into the ditch. Rhyllann shouted after the driver, wishing he had a free hand to gesture with.

‘Oh help.’ He muttered as the brake lights glowed. Going back was not an option, they’d just managed to wobble down the steepest hill in the county, with a churning stomach Rhyllann shouted again, hoping the wiry bloke emerging from the van would think both calls had been cries for help. The moustachioed driver accepted Rhyllann's inspired explanation that they had come adrift from their Duke of Edinburgh award group, and that Wren had injured his foot. Rhyllann explained earnestly that this was their final leg, they didn’t want to give up.

The man spoke with an accent so thick they could barely comprehend him, not helped by badly fitting dentures. Finally they understood that he meant to take them home, where his sister would take care of them.

Home was a roadside cottage with a series of tumbledown outhouses one side, and a spot of land used to park vehicles on the other.

Sister Rose seemed dubious, but treated Wren’s foot with a poultice which stank to heaven, but contained knit bone and comfrey. Apparently. After a silent meal of grey meat and mash, the boys were banished from the chilly cottage to an outhouse. Rhyllann didn’t blame them. The mis-shapen t-shirt he wore was beginning to feel like a second skin. When he took his jeans off to snuggle under the eiderdown Rose had provided he half expected them to stand up on their own. And Wren’s bandage managed to overpower the smell of the outhouse’s previous occupants: Pigs by the names of Smokey and Bacon from what Rhyllann could gather from Moustache George’s cackle.

He yawned and stretched, allowing his mind to wander back over the amazing flight they had made, only half listening to Wren as he fantasised over what they would do once they found the treasure, both building castles in the air. The next thing he knew he was yawning and stretching again, only this time it was morning.

The door swung open to admit Wren, balancing two dishes of porridge.

‘George has gone to work. Rose said eat up, then get lost.’

Rhyllann stared.

‘Well …not exactly get lost – but she made it plain she don’t want us hanging around.’

Rhyllann took the empty bowls and eiderdown back to Rose. It was clear she didn’t buy the Duke of Edinburgh story. So he haggled with the hard faced daughter of the soil. The gleaming racing cycle worth over a grand, for a bath, a change of clothes, and a handful of painkillers. Rhyllann allowed himself to be beaten down on the packed lunch. If last night’s stew was anything to go by, they weren’t missing much. The porridge formed a sullen lump in his stomach, despite his best efforts to forget it.

Just after ten, they waved goodbye to Sister Rose on almost friendly terms. Wren’s swelling had subsided, and Rose had applied a fresh dressing. Better still, she’d once been a member of the Territorial Army.

‘Surprise surprise.’ Muttered Rhyllann. She outfitted them both in camouflage gear, combat trousers, matching blouse jackets, and khaki t-shirts. In a fit of generosity, she pressed a couple of russet skinned apples into their hands. They looked like ordinary run of the mill hikers. Apart from the faint smell of paraffin that hung about them.

After taking a short cut over a couple of sloping fields they were back on the moors again, the sun had yet to burn through the morning mist, but the air felt just as pleasant and invigorating as the day before. In answer to Rhyllann's anxious questioning every twenty minutes or so Wren finally snapped: ‘Stop fussing. It’s ok. I just took liberties with it yesterday.’

Even so, Rhyllann insisted they took it slowly, calling frequent halts until Wren declared he’d had enough of “faffing around” and marched forward with only the occasional lurch.

‘Look – if it starts to hurt – then I’ll stop. Okay?’

Rhyllann saluted his courage. He told Wren so.

‘I’m not letting you down, and I can’t let my mum down. And I’m doing this for me too. I’m done with being a loser. Me and you, we’re winners.’

Rhyllann wanted to laugh, but Wren’s determined face forbade him. Slapping Wren's shoulder, Rhyllann fell into step musing on how his cousin seemed to have matured over the past forty-eight hours.

*

They were too late. A day too late. As the slate pink monolith known as Taffy’s Folly came into view, they saw a swarm of people scurrying to and fro, a hive of activity.

‘Maybe they’re just tourists – holidaymakers.’ Wren said hopefully.

They circled round taking an indirect path up to a pile of boulders, where they could spy out the land. The stones formed a haphazard pyramid shape, as easy as a staircase to climb. Around thirty feet above ground one massive boulder seemed mis-placed, overhanging the others by a good ten feet; providing them with a perfect vantage point. They could see for miles: Splayed out beneath the overhang they were completely covered.

Rhyllann’s stomach churned. The men had finished marking out the ground around the monolith with white rods and tape, and were now digging furiously. All but one wore hi-vis vests emblazoned with the initials CCC. Cornwall county council? Rhyllann tried to tell himself that maybe they
were
council workers, this was just an unlucky coincidence. But the sinking feeling inside and a persistent little voice in his head told him otherwise.

‘Who are they? How did they get here?’ He asked. Although the answer to his second question was obvious. Two jeeps were parked nearby.

‘Stern! Scumbag!’ Wren snorted. ‘They managed Joan’s text quicker than my code!’ He gritted his teeth, glaring down at the scene below.

‘The book – Joan's diary: how did they get their hands on it?’ Rhyllann wailed.

Wren snorted again. ‘Ever hear of bent coppers? My money’s on Hewes or Rodgers.’

He spoke without taking his eyes from the excavation. Rhyllann frowned, the men seemed to be digging almost at the base of the standing stone. Strange. Rhyllann rolled onto his back to squint at the sun, almost directly overhead.

‘Midday. Shadows aren’t very long then at noon?’

Wren glanced up.

‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that before. I expected a long finger like shadow to point…’ His voice trailed off; studying the scene below him again, he massaged his temples, then crawled away to sit cross legged with his back against another boulder. Rhyllann thought about telling him to get back undercover, but then thought it unlikely anyone would glance over in their direction and inched over to join him. The workmen were totally focused on the ground surrounding the massive standing stone. Rhyllann expected at any moment to hear a triumphant shout from below. Wren grasped him suddenly.

‘Look! Look what they’re doing!’ His voice stuttered with emotion.

Rhyllann peered over a craggy boulder rim. A mechanical rotator chundered up earth.

‘They’re digging.’

‘But – they can’t do that – they can’t do that! That’s ancient moor land. They’re destroying the natural habitat!’ Wren spat with rage.

‘You go and tell them then.’ Rhyllann hissed and closed his eyes, opening them again when Wren thumped him.

‘Something’s wrong. Something’s gone wrong. They can’t find it. Look. They’re just digging randomly now.’

They’d attracted company too. A quad bike roared up, a furious argument seemed to be taking place, with much arm throwing and yelling.

‘I’m getting down there – find out what’s going on.’ While all backs were turned on him, Rhyllann slithered down, and crawled forward through gorse thickets, following old rabbit trails. He managed to get within twenty yards, in time to hear the quad bike rider’s raised voice.

‘I don’t care who you think has given you permission. That is an protected monument. Work stops until I’ve spoken to civic centre.’

With that he climbed back on his quad and sped away. Rhyllann counted nine men. The large guy without a council jacket yelled into a mobile.

‘Get hold of your translator. They’ve got it wrong.’ He jammed the mobile into a pocket, turning to face one of the “Workmen” remonstrating with him.

Rhyllann thought he recognised Stern's dumpy figure.

‘We should have shot him!’ He shouted gesturing towards the quad rider.

‘No. No more violence. This way is better. You’ll see. Back to the farmhouse; have some lunch … the correct translation – we can’t afford too much attention.’

The big guy seemed to be in charge now, Rhyllann thought he recognised him as the rugby player from Gran’s. He’d turned his back on Stern, and didn’t see the calculating looks exchanged with other gang members, or the way Stern spat with disgust.

Rhyllann glanced back to Wren’s hiding place, barely registering the jeeps departing. No way would Wren have mistranslated Welsh. He studied the monolith, the sun’s shadow barely cleared the displaced earth surrounding it. Jumping up, he bounded through the gorse, and scrabbled back to Wren.

‘Some crazy stuff, brawd. Come on. They’ve gone. Let’s get down there.’

Wren leaned back against the massive stone, patting it, as though to console.

‘Look what they’ve done.’ He moaned sinking to his knees, and burying his head in his hands to peer through his fingers at the rutted earth surrounding the stone. Rhyllann slumped beside him. A church bell carried from some distant village, wafting a mournful clanging over the moors. Rhyllann counted automatically: Twelve chimes.

‘Noon.’ He said bleakly.

Wren turned a mud smeared face up to him. ‘What did you say?’

‘Noon – the church bells – they rang out twelve times. Twelve o’clock.’

Wren stared at him open mouthed; joy swamping his face.

‘Of course! Of course!’ He hugged Rhyllann, mussing up his hair.

‘The bells.’ He staggered upright, pulling Rhyllann with him. ‘That’s how the old folk told the time. By looking at the sun – and by bells summoning them to prayer!’ He swung Rhyllann round.

‘But you said yourself – midday hasn’t changed – unless someone did move the stone.’

‘No! No!’ Wren slapped his forehead. ‘You said it Annie – look – hardly any shadow. The midday sun casts no shadow!’ He shouted punching the air then stood stock still, eyes boring into Rhyllann, willing him to understand. ‘Not noon. Nones. Jeez! How could I have been so stupid!’ He thumped his forehead again.

‘What?’ Rhyllann struggled to comprehend what nuns had to do with anything.

‘”Vesters,” “Complain,” “Nones.” Calling the faithful to prayer. No-one had clocks or watches! That’s how they counted the hours!’ He gripped Rhyllann’s arms, jigging again. A trickle of hope fluttered as light dawned.

‘Nones. So Nones means a different time of day? Is that it?’

‘Yes! It makes sense! Nones – the ninth hour. The equinox – twelve hours day – twelve hours night. Three hours before sunset. The shadows would be almost at their longest.’ Understanding flooded Rhyllann. They clutched at each other giggling hysterically.

‘Annie – your mobile – d’you still have it?’

‘Yes – but …’

‘Turn it on quick. We need the exact time.’

Smoothing the earth over, Wren began making complicated calculations, glancing at the sun a couple of times, making a couple of deep gouges in the earth, then drawing an oversized clock face. Reaching up to drag at Rhyllann’s mobile, he peered at the time. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded to himself, then traced the hands at ten past eleven, then went back to using his fingers as calculus.

Rhyllann frowned. ‘Use the mobile’s calculator!’

‘Shut up! Be quiet!’ He spoke absently as if hushing a child. Rhyllann didn’t take offence. Wren was in another world, a world he could never hope to enter. Instead, glancing around Rhyllann spotted a forgotten shovel and rushed over to claim it. He was doing the digging! He did a little body pop dance of delight.

Wren was on his feet again, surveying the standing stone’s height.

‘What d’you reckon Annie?’

Rhyllann tipped his head upwards, stepping backwards to view the top of the gigantic stone.

‘Dunno. Twelve, maybe fifteen feet?’ His head swum suddenly. ‘I ain’t climbing up to find out!’

Wren grinned. ‘Plonker! Grab some of that tape they were using … quick! And gimme that scale ruler and protractor.’ Securing the tape firmly to the very foot of the stone with a rod, he hobbled away, turning every few steps to hold the scale ruler at arm’s length. Abruptly he stood still, then drove a second rod into the ground, before scurrying back to his makeshift workstation.

‘Annie – measure that distance – careful now.’ From his pocket Wren produced the shiny digital pedometer. Rather than risk being called a plonker again, Rhyllann obeyed.

‘Fourteen feet, eight inches.’ He called over.

Wren bent his head without a word of thanks. Rhyllann couldn’t bear anymore. His enforced quietness and inactivity were driving him crazy. Striding over he hollered.

‘What the hell are you up to? We can’t sit here all day playing with dirt!’

As he spoke Wren finished the last of his scribbling. He looked up at Rhyllann as though seeing him for the first time that day. His face full of wonder.

‘We did it Annie! We’ve found it!’

Glancing down Rhyllann saw that the clock face now acted as a giant protractor. Angles had been marked off, one in particular heavily indented, with a measurement of sixty-two feet.

‘Rods Annie – get the rods – hurry now – we’ve gotta work fast.’ Wren's sense of urgency was contagious, Rhyllann scurried to get the rods, which were snatched from him and planted in a diagonal ordered format. After wrapping it round the last rod, Wren handed him the tape, still secured to the foot of Taffy’s Folly.

‘Kay Annie – keep the same angle – you understand? Start at the very beginning, walk sixty-two feet away then mark it well.’

The moors hadn’t changed. They were still in the same place. But somehow the colours deepened, sounds were sharper and the air crackled with anticipation. Every single particle of the universe, every blade of grass, crumble of earth, puff of breeze intensified. As though nature herself rejoiced in this moment.