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Authors: Iain Lawrence
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furiously. Eli added a round head, a gaping mouth and startled, widened eyes. He jabbed his finger at the running man, then poked me in the ribs. And he spoke again, those horrible groans. Three words.
“Run for it?” I asked. “Run for it?”
Eli shook his head even more violently than before. He brushed away his picture and started over.
And a shadow fell across us.
“He has pudding for brains,” said Simon Mawgan, standing square in the doorway. “You won’t get anywhere with him.”
Eli fell back as though the words had struck him like cannonballs. He groveled for the blankets and at the same time erased the picture on the ground.
“Come up to the house,” said Mawgan to me. “You’re only wasting time in here.”
I followed behind him, leaving Eli alone with the ponies.
We sat at opposite ends of the big table, and Mawgan glared down at his hands. Mary came in from the kitchen and set down three plates. Mawgan drummed his fingers in the silence.
Mary brought forks and knives. She gave me a little, secret smile, then slipped out again.
I coughed. “Thank you for the clothes. They fit well.”
Mawgan grunted.
“I’ll give them back,” I said, “when mine—”
“Keep them.” He kept his head lowered. “The fellow before you has no need of them now.”
I knew what that meant, and I looked at him as he sat quietly thinking, his face stern, his brow wrinkled. Was he really so kindly as Mary thought? His big hands fiddled with his plate, but he kept silent, and the only sounds came from Mary in the kitchen. I heard her lift the lid of the firebox, the little clang as she moved it aside. I even heardthe crackle of flames inside, the slither of coals as she dropped in another scoop.
“Do you know what a sinkhole is?” asked Mawgan suddenly. “ ’Course you do. The land around here is riddled with them, John. Sinkholes and mine shafts.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Fall in one of those and you break your pony’s leg. Likely your own neck as well.”
“Oh, Uncle,” said Mary. She poked her head around the door. “I was with him all the time. I know where the holes are.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mawgan. “You stay on the roads from now on. You hear me?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And no more racing across the moor. Your mother would turn in her grave if she saw the way you carry on.”
“Yes, Uncle,” said Mary. With a wink at me, she slipped back to the kitchen.
Mawgan joined his hands and rested them on the table edge. And he sat like that, silent as a stone, until Mary arrived—beaming ear to ear—with a covered dish that she put with a flourish in the middle of the table.
“And what’s this?” asked Mawgan.
“It’s”—she lifted the lid—“starry-gazy!”
There were even more pilchards than last time, their poor blackened heads poking from the crust, watching me balefully with round, dead eyes. And I thought right away of Tommy Colwyn, caught on the moor with a spade in his hands and a row of bodies not quite buried.
“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Mawgan. “But look at that, then: You’re giving half the pie to young John.”
“Oh, there’s plenty for you,” said Mary, her whole face turning scarlet.
I couldn’t have eaten a bite of that pie if it hadn’t been for Mary. She sat and watched me tackle each mouthful, smiling and nodding as though I was a baby she was feeding. While I choked down my share a swallow at a time, Simon Mawgan worked at his like a coal miner wielding shovel and pick.
When we were finished, Mawgan took a pipe to one of the big captain’s chairs. He arranged himself in the last of the evening sun and filled his pipe with pinches of shredded tobacco. Then he looked up to see if I was watching, and from a bowl at his elbow he took a small piece of glass. He held it up in his fingers.
“Have you seen one of these, John?” he asked.
“No,” I said. It was a tube of thin glass, the width of a pencil and closed
“Run for it?” I asked. “Run for it?”
Eli shook his head even more violently than before. He brushed away his picture and started over.
And a shadow fell across us.
“He has pudding for brains,” said Simon Mawgan, standing square in the doorway. “You won’t get anywhere with him.”
Eli fell back as though the words had struck him like cannonballs. He groveled for the blankets and at the same time erased the picture on the ground.
“Come up to the house,” said Mawgan to me. “You’re only wasting time in here.”
I followed behind him, leaving Eli alone with the ponies.
We sat at opposite ends of the big table, and Mawgan glared down at his hands. Mary came in from the kitchen and set down three plates. Mawgan drummed his fingers in the silence.
Mary brought forks and knives. She gave me a little, secret smile, then slipped out again.
I coughed. “Thank you for the clothes. They fit well.”
Mawgan grunted.
“I’ll give them back,” I said, “when mine—”
“Keep them.” He kept his head lowered. “The fellow before you has no need of them now.”
I knew what that meant, and I looked at him as he sat quietly thinking, his face stern, his brow wrinkled. Was he really so kindly as Mary thought? His big hands fiddled with his plate, but he kept silent, and the only sounds came from Mary in the kitchen. I heard her lift the lid of the firebox, the little clang as she moved it aside. I even heardthe crackle of flames inside, the slither of coals as she dropped in another scoop.
“Do you know what a sinkhole is?” asked Mawgan suddenly. “ ’Course you do. The land around here is riddled with them, John. Sinkholes and mine shafts.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Fall in one of those and you break your pony’s leg. Likely your own neck as well.”
“Oh, Uncle,” said Mary. She poked her head around the door. “I was with him all the time. I know where the holes are.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mawgan. “You stay on the roads from now on. You hear me?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And no more racing across the moor. Your mother would turn in her grave if she saw the way you carry on.”
“Yes, Uncle,” said Mary. With a wink at me, she slipped back to the kitchen.
Mawgan joined his hands and rested them on the table edge. And he sat like that, silent as a stone, until Mary arrived—beaming ear to ear—with a covered dish that she put with a flourish in the middle of the table.
“And what’s this?” asked Mawgan.
“It’s”—she lifted the lid—“starry-gazy!”
There were even more pilchards than last time, their poor blackened heads poking from the crust, watching me balefully with round, dead eyes. And I thought right away of Tommy Colwyn, caught on the moor with a spade in his hands and a row of bodies not quite buried.
“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Mawgan. “But look at that, then: You’re giving half the pie to young John.”
“Oh, there’s plenty for you,” said Mary, her whole face turning scarlet.
I couldn’t have eaten a bite of that pie if it hadn’t been for Mary. She sat and watched me tackle each mouthful, smiling and nodding as though I was a baby she was feeding. While I choked down my share a swallow at a time, Simon Mawgan worked at his like a coal miner wielding shovel and pick.
When we were finished, Mawgan took a pipe to one of the big captain’s chairs. He arranged himself in the last of the evening sun and filled his pipe with pinches of shredded tobacco. Then he looked up to see if I was watching, and from a bowl at his elbow he took a small piece of glass. He held it up in his fingers.
“Have you seen one of these, John?” he asked.
“No,” I said. It was a tube of thin glass, the width of a pencil and closed
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