Ribblestrop Forever! (26 page)

Deidre’s face was so swollen she could hardly talk. ‘Are they human?’ she blubbered. ‘Are they human beings? I mean . . .’

‘It’s war,’ said Brian. ‘They’ve declared war – simple as that.’

His group had fared no better.

He had also kicked through a tripwire and two of his men had been knocked into the camp latrine. Lady Vyner had been whisked off her feet in a goal net and was now dangling from the top of a
conifer. A fire engine with hydraulic crane – the one vehicle nobody had thought to invite – was being called up from Exeter. It would take two hours to get there.

‘Secure units,’ sobbed Deidre. ‘All of them. These children should be in cages!’

Ex-Inspector Cuthbertson heard about the raid that evening.

It frightened him, because he realised that he had forgotten just how dangerous – and resourceful – the Ribblestrop children could be. He made a resolution not to forget again. He
checked the equipment in his ice-cream van. He had various restraints – plastic cable ties were the easiest for thin wrists and ankles, but he had nylon cord and chain for when they got to
Lightning Tor. The Sanchez boy could be doped quickly with chloroform and belted into a bodybag.

Cuthbertson checked his personals too. He had a false passport and a brand new credit card. He had money in both sterling and dollars, and it was all in a small backpack that could be grabbed at
the first sign of trouble. Timmy Fox had the hot-air balloon ready, safe and neat on its trailer. That was hitched to the van, which had been serviced the day before and was full of petrol. He had
food, stove, tent, sleeping bag, night-vision goggles and waterproofs. His brother had been in touch – the fourth member of the team – and they’d devised a neat little plot to
deal with Captain Routon. The ice-cream man disguise was fresh and ready on its coathanger, so he relaxed again. He telephoned The Priory.

‘How’s it going?’ he said.

Mr Ian paused. ‘We’ve had a set-back,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘One of the boys has got chicken-pox.’

‘So what? Put a pillow over his face.’

‘You don’t understand. It might be an epidemic, so we’ve got to check the rest and possibly postpone the camp—’

‘Get your brats onto the moor, Ian.’

‘I’m doing my best, Cuthbertson!’

‘I don’t care if they’ve got pox or leprosy, I want them on the moor with Ribblestrop. That was the plan! If you’re not there, they won’t proceed.’ He lowered
his voice. ‘If you don’t make the rendezvous, friend, I will personally rip the beard off your face and feed it to you bristle by bristle. Then I’ll put you in jail.’

There was a silence.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Mr Ian.

The chicken-pox turned out to be an isolated case and Mr Ian nearly wept with relief.

The boys and girls of The Priory finished morning prep in the usual frigid silence and at half-past twelve put away their books. Some went to the library for periodical reading, for there was a
current affairs test twice a week. A select group went to practise their university application letters, while those doing the Pioneers’ Award put their blazers into polythene wraps and filed
to the gym for the dreaded final kit inspection.

Mr Ian had organised a line of tables and each child set out the items it intended to take.

‘What’s that, Perkins?’

‘My reading book, sir.’

‘Rejected. You will not have time for reading.’

‘Sir.’

‘Hubble. Re-fold those socks.’

‘Sir.’

He moved down the line and the children sensed his tension. Jacqueline stood with her hands behind her back, eyes down. Scott was beside her.

‘You let me down, you two,’ said Mr Ian quietly. ‘You were not loyal.’

The children blinked. Jacqueline licked her lips.

‘I’m not going to punish you now. I’m going to observe you, in the hope you’ll win favour over the next three days. If you fraternise with those . . . lowlifes again,
I’ll assume you want to undermine me. And when we’re home, you will experience the full hell of my retribution. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the children together.

‘Why are there feathers in your kit, Scott? Matron told me about this.’

‘They were given to me, sir.’

Mr Ian picked one up. ‘A feather collection,’ he said. ‘You’re an effeminate boy, aren’t you? Who gave them to you? Speak up.’

‘They were given to me at the camp, sir. I just like them.’

‘Rejected. I don’t want clutter on this trip. I’ll say this to all of you . . .’ Mr Ian raised his voice. ‘If you’re taking toys, get rid of them now. Do not
think you can conceal a toy, I will find it. Last term it was Charlie Johnson, wasn’t it?’

A fair-haired boy at the end of the row jerked to attention. ‘Yes, sir,’ he piped.

‘What did you conceal?’

‘A toy car, sir.’

‘What did we do with it? When we got home?’

‘We smashed it up, sir.’

‘We took a hammer to it, didn’t we, Johnson? We agreed that toy cars were inappropriate, even if they had been given to us by a much-loved, much-missed grandparent. We smashed it to
pieces and we put the pieces in the bin. When we’re out on the moor, we’re a unit working together. One weakling and the whole group is weakened. If you spot weakness, tell me about it.
Toys, knick-knacks, reading books. They have no place on Ribblemoor. So . . .’

He moved out to the front where everyone could see him.

‘I will call an item of kit. You will pick it up and hold it above your head. Start with your compass. Come on, hold it up!’

The children did so.

‘Good. Survival muesli bars, six-pack.’

They put their compasses down and held up their muesli bars.

‘Okay, let’s speed this up. Toilet tissue, pack of ten. Grey shirt. Get it folded, Tutton! Good, Fisher – very neat. Outward-bound neck-tie – let me see it!
Good!’

The list went on, and Mr Ian marched up and down the line, checking his squad. At one o’clock he was done and they all went to lunch. Then they moved their packs to the waiting minibus. At
two-fifteen, exactly on-schedule, Mr Ian nosed the bus out of the school gates and set off for the moors.

As he did so, two elderly donkeys made their way up the long flank of Corriemor Hill, drawing chariots that bulged with weapons and equipment.

The Ribblestrop children and their teachers were walking beside them, drenched in sunshine. The sky overhead was a dome of cloudless blue and skylarks poured down song, as fresh and clear as
water from a spring. They had all set off at sunrise and had already walked several kilometres. Doctor Ellie checked one of the old maps, which flapped in her hands.

‘Off the path, I think!’ she cried. ‘If we swing northwest, we’ll go past a little wood. That’s where the flare path was leading, I’m sure of it.’

A gust of wind almost tore the map from her hands.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ shouted the headmaster.

Doctor Ellie put her mouth to his ear and shouted back. ‘We saw the path last night! But the stones aren’t easy to spot, you see. It’s a far cleverer system than I’d
thought!’

‘Look behind!’ shouted Sam.

Doctor Ellie turned and saw that most of the children had paused and were gazing in the direction they’d come. Their cloaks flapped and their hair streamed. The higher they climbed, the
more the wind tugged at them. The land folded away below them, a great duvet of greens, yellows and browns. They could see the track they’d ascended and they watched the shadows of clouds
steaming across the landscape. The camel brayed with joy – it had been impossible to leave her, after all – she’d cried all night. Now she carried Professor Worthington, who sat
back in a classroom chair that Sanjay had lashed over the hump. She was reading under a parasol.

‘Why haven’t we been out here before, sir?’ said Imagio to Doonan.

Doonan shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It makes me want to be out here every day.’

‘I don’t ever want to go back,’ said Eric, holding his hand.

‘Oh, but you can’t leave Ribblestrop. You can’t be serious!’

‘It’s so beautiful, though!’

‘Come on,’ said Asilah. ‘We’ve got six hours of walking ahead. Let’s move it!’

‘But who’s actually navigating?’ cried the headmaster. ‘We do have a destination in mind, don’t we?’

‘Follow me!’ yelled Captain Routon.

He trotted down the hill towards them, waving his arms. He was in a bright red army coat, courtesy of the Ribblestrop auction house, and was impossible to miss. It flapped behind him like a
scarlet cloak and he was grinning from ear to ear.

‘The first tor’s in sight, sir,’ he panted. ‘Just over that ridge. Then we push on through the valley, all the way to Flaming Tor. And that’s where we meet The
Priory children.’

‘Right.’

‘Mr Ian’s got the final co-ordinates. He knows where we end up.’

Miles jumped onto a rock. He drew his sword from his belt, and raised it, so that it flashed in the sunlight. The donkeys brayed again, and the chariots rolled forward.

‘Heave!’ cried the children, turning the wheels. ‘Heave!’

The tribe moved steadily on.

Millie hung back for Doctor Ellie.

‘Where’s Vicky?’ she said.

‘Looking after Eleudin,’ said Doctor Ellie, quietly. ‘She’s going to meet up with us later, when we find the main flare path – when we know where we’re going.
We’ve all got those field telephones Captain Routon bought, yes?’

‘You think they’re going to work? They’re ancient.’

‘I have more faith in ancient things than you do, my dear. And Oli seemed hopeful.’

‘I’m just not sure how we’re going to keep together,’ said Millie. ‘We’re going to be splitting up and we’re not even sure what we’re looking for
. . .’

‘But you can feel it, can’t you?’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘Something’s guiding us.’

‘I just don’t want to be lost out here,’ said Millie.

‘You can’t be lost at home. And this was their home, remember.’

They ploughed on, up ground that got rockier and rockier. When they came to the next ridge, they stopped again, for the world had changed and the new landscape stunned them.
The softness they’d come through came to a sudden and dramatic end, and they were peering down into a gorge that was wild and forbidding. The grass had been nibbled to almost nothing and a
bridleway wound down towards a stream that hissed and gurgled across a plateau of rock. In the distance, they could see an upthrust of savage, grey stone. It reared up like the volcano it was, cut
off flat at the top. Beyond it was an even larger one and this was topped by a spike of granite that pointed like a dead finger right up into the sky. It was a prehistoric land and, had a
brontosaurus sauntered into view, nobody would have been surprised.

‘That is crazy, isn’t it?’ whispered Miles.

Tomaz was next to him. ‘What is?’ he said.

‘I just didn’t know there were places like this on our doorstep.’

‘It’s mad,’ said Imagio. ‘We’re just a few hours from school – and this has been waiting for us.’

‘We’re going back in time. How can this be here when we’re . . . doing lessons?’

‘It’s awesome.’

Everyone climbed onto the chariots now, for they were rolling downhill. Sanjay and Israel had the reins and the donkeys took the strain easily. Nobody spoke, for as they descended, the rock rose
up on either side and enclosed them in a silence they didn’t want to break. Even the skylarks hung back, and the only sound was the wind sawing at the occasional bush and the water grinding
the rock.

They forded the stream easily, up to their chests in icy water. They hauled the chariots back onto dry land and set off into the Stone Age. The grass had given way to lichens and there were
gleams of silver and quartz under foot. The first volcano now towered over them and they could see its black fissures and the piles of debris that had collapsed down its sides, strewn around it
like rubble.

‘Why don’t we climb it?’ said Sam.

‘Not that one, lad,’ said Captain Routon, cheerfully. ‘That’s a baby compared to where we’re going.’ He held one of the maps in his hand and studied it,
turning it this way and that. He jogged on ahead and waited.

‘That’s Killer Tor, that one,’ he said when they were together again. ‘That’s the first, isn’t it?’ He scratched his head, aware that an old war-wound
had come to life. ‘That means we’re coming in here, just where we wanted to. The next one is Silver Tor, then you’ve got Hammer Tor and Broken Tor. We’ve got to get past all
of them.’

‘Sam’s right, though,’ said Kenji. ‘We ought to climb them.’

‘You’ll get plenty of climbing tomorrow,’ said Captain Routon, zipping up his coat. ‘Don’t you worry about climbing. Okay, forward march, everybody! Follow
me!’

The chariots rolled on. They had refilled their water bottles and snacked on dried fruit. Everyone had plenty of energy and the only worrying thing was how small they suddenly felt. It was as if
they were shrinking. That morning they had been part of a lush, green landscape. Now they felt like insects on the moon.

When they saw the hot-air balloon, high above, it seemed comforting. They had felt cut off from civilisation, all alone in a valley that had existed quite happily without them for millions of
years. It was nice to know another human being was aware of their presence and they waved their arms.

Timmy Fox got straight on his radio.

‘The eagle has landed, old boy,’ he said. ‘Are you there, Cuthbertson?’

‘Clear as a bell, I’m here all right.’

‘You’re on Lightning Tor, are you?’

‘Right by the main mast – that’s why reception’s so good. What have you got?’

‘The Foxter’s got them in his sights; they’re dressed rather strangely and riding in chariots. Unorthodox route. They’ve come past . . . I think it’s Silver
Tor.’

‘You think? Or you know?’

‘Silver Tor. ID positive.’

‘Ian’s on the move too. They’ll rendezvous tonight.’

‘Good. Bang on schedule, then.’

‘Have you heard the weather forecast? That low pressure’s doing just what we hoped.’

‘I can feel it. It’s pretty tempestuous up here, so foul weather is on its way.’