when the other two followedhis pointing finger, all they could see was a bundle of rags under a feather-boa tree. Chloe took her list of books from her pocket. It comforted her to see how many fantasy novels there were on it and to recall how many of them ended happily.
‘If I find something to write with – and on,’ she told herself, ‘I’ll transfer the list, maybe update it, on a better bit of paper.’
‘What?’ asks the bat. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
We ought to warn them , says the masked board-comber. We ought to tell them to beware of Katerfelto .
‘You need to protect the girl, is that it? You think she’s got a map in her pocket, don’t you?’
She does keep looking at that piece of paper .
‘It might be a shopping list. A tin of boot polish. A dozen eggs. That sort of thing.’
I think it’s a map .
‘That still doesn’t mean there’s something in it for you. No one would have a map showing a cache of Eskimo ornaments, now, would they?’
Inuit. You must call them Inuit. There could be lots of things , mutters the board-comber, which I could use to trade. Stage jewels. I know lots of board-combers who collect stage jewels. Porcelain figures. Stamps. Cigarette cards. If there’s treasure on that map I want it .
‘You want? You want? That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it? What about those poor kids over there? They were nearly killed by those villagers, you know. Did you go and help them then? No. And why? Because you knew you could get the map afterwards, once they’d been murdered. If it’s lost up the mountain, though, you’ll never be able to get it, will you? You’re terrified of Katerfelto.’
So are you.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not after a map, so it doesn’t count.’
The bat begins swinging back andforth on the board-comber’s ear.
Stop that .
But the bat keeps on swinging.
When evening time comes round, the bat flies away on its usual jaunt to find food. The board-comber, in a heap by an ostrich-feather shrub, watches the children from beneath the brim of his hat. He watches and he watches. When he hears slumber, when he sees slumber, he crawls from his outer clothes as if they were a snail shell. They are left behind. Once or twice, perhaps it is practice, he darts back again, quick as a rat, into the clothes. However, the children really are asleep and besides now it’s so dark only a wolf or a bat could see him. He slithers and slides until but a metre or two from the sleeping forms. There he writes in the dust. Then he shoots back again, flashing through the darkness, to enter his coats.
‘Did you enjoy that? Your trip out?’
Wha— you back, are you?
‘Yup, full of insects.’
No burping to prove it.
‘Wouldn’t dream of such bad manners.’
Yes, well, I know you .
‘And I know you, mine host. Here, lend me your ear, I come to bury my claws, not to prise them. The evil that men do lives after them …’
Quiet, I need to sleep .
‘Did you warn the children?’
I left a message – messages .
‘Uh-oh, you couldn’t resist, could you?’
What?
‘Asking them about the map.’
No, no – I never asked them about a map. I simply asked if they knew about any stamps or coins .
‘Same thing. Same thing, old host. Now you’ll have them looking in every trunk, under every pile of books, for treasure – you realise that?’
Why should they?
‘Because children arelike combers: they collect things, especially if they think they’re valuable. You should know. You were one once. Maybe you’re still one, how would I know? I’m just a bat.’
I’m going to sleep.
‘All right, you sleep, I’ll keep watch.’
What for ? asks the board-comber, looking round nervously into the pitch-black darkness.
‘You know.’
The board-comber shudders involuntarily, as he remembers that the Removal Firm could be near. While he has no particular reason to worry, he fears he may have done something wrong without realising he has transgressed. The Removal Firm
‘If I find something to write with – and on,’ she told herself, ‘I’ll transfer the list, maybe update it, on a better bit of paper.’
‘What?’ asks the bat. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
We ought to warn them , says the masked board-comber. We ought to tell them to beware of Katerfelto .
‘You need to protect the girl, is that it? You think she’s got a map in her pocket, don’t you?’
She does keep looking at that piece of paper .
‘It might be a shopping list. A tin of boot polish. A dozen eggs. That sort of thing.’
I think it’s a map .
‘That still doesn’t mean there’s something in it for you. No one would have a map showing a cache of Eskimo ornaments, now, would they?’
Inuit. You must call them Inuit. There could be lots of things , mutters the board-comber, which I could use to trade. Stage jewels. I know lots of board-combers who collect stage jewels. Porcelain figures. Stamps. Cigarette cards. If there’s treasure on that map I want it .
‘You want? You want? That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it? What about those poor kids over there? They were nearly killed by those villagers, you know. Did you go and help them then? No. And why? Because you knew you could get the map afterwards, once they’d been murdered. If it’s lost up the mountain, though, you’ll never be able to get it, will you? You’re terrified of Katerfelto.’
So are you.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not after a map, so it doesn’t count.’
The bat begins swinging back andforth on the board-comber’s ear.
Stop that .
But the bat keeps on swinging.
When evening time comes round, the bat flies away on its usual jaunt to find food. The board-comber, in a heap by an ostrich-feather shrub, watches the children from beneath the brim of his hat. He watches and he watches. When he hears slumber, when he sees slumber, he crawls from his outer clothes as if they were a snail shell. They are left behind. Once or twice, perhaps it is practice, he darts back again, quick as a rat, into the clothes. However, the children really are asleep and besides now it’s so dark only a wolf or a bat could see him. He slithers and slides until but a metre or two from the sleeping forms. There he writes in the dust. Then he shoots back again, flashing through the darkness, to enter his coats.
‘Did you enjoy that? Your trip out?’
Wha— you back, are you?
‘Yup, full of insects.’
No burping to prove it.
‘Wouldn’t dream of such bad manners.’
Yes, well, I know you .
‘And I know you, mine host. Here, lend me your ear, I come to bury my claws, not to prise them. The evil that men do lives after them …’
Quiet, I need to sleep .
‘Did you warn the children?’
I left a message – messages .
‘Uh-oh, you couldn’t resist, could you?’
What?
‘Asking them about the map.’
No, no – I never asked them about a map. I simply asked if they knew about any stamps or coins .
‘Same thing. Same thing, old host. Now you’ll have them looking in every trunk, under every pile of books, for treasure – you realise that?’
Why should they?
‘Because children arelike combers: they collect things, especially if they think they’re valuable. You should know. You were one once. Maybe you’re still one, how would I know? I’m just a bat.’
I’m going to sleep.
‘All right, you sleep, I’ll keep watch.’
What for ? asks the board-comber, looking round nervously into the pitch-black darkness.
‘You know.’
The board-comber shudders involuntarily, as he remembers that the Removal Firm could be near. While he has no particular reason to worry, he fears he may have done something wrong without realising he has transgressed. The Removal Firm
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