The Guardians (7 page)

His feet were tired and aching from the unaccustomed walking but he pressed on, leaving the fence as far behind him as possible. He rested from time to time, and once while doing so heard a new sound. It grew louder and clarified into something which he had at least heard on holovision historical epics—the thudding of horses' hooves.

Rob took cover behind a nearby hedge. It had a view of the lane and soon the horsemen appeared, riding to the west. There were half a dozen, in red tunics with gold buttons and gleaming leather straps and belts. They rode with careless arrogance; he heard them calling to one another and laughing. A couple of big dogs, one yellow, one white with
black spots, lolloped alongside, their mouths open, red tongues hanging from between white teeth. And the horsemen had swords: the scabbards rattled against their high brown leather boots.

They did not look his way. The cavalcade rode on, disappearing behind high hedges, the sound of their passing gradually fading on the morning air. The king's musketeers must have looked something like that, riding through the summer fields near Paris on their way to a brush with the cardinal's men. It was more storybook than real; fascinating but scarcely believable.

Not long afterward he saw the first house inside the County. It had outlying buildings, a small pond, and poultry pecked the ground nearby. A farmhouse. There would be food there, but he dared not approach. Smoke rose from a chimney and as he watched a figure came from one of the outbuildings, crossed the yard, and disappeared inside the house. Going to breakfast, perhaps. Rob felt in his pocket and brought out one of the tiny potatoes. Friction had rubbed it clean of earth. He bit into it. It tasted unpleasant insofar as it tasted of anything,
but he managed to chew it and get it down. It quenched his thirst a little, too. He ate three or four more.

The day wore on. During one of his rests he took off the jacket and rolled it up as a pillow for his head. He fell asleep and woke with the sun burning his face. It was high in the sky, almost at the zenith. He chewed more potatoes and went limping on his way. His feet were hurting him. A mile or so farther on he stopped at the edge of a field and took off his socks. His feet were blistered and some of the blisters had burst, exposing raw flesh.

He realized he could not go on indefinitely like this, but did not know what else to do. Field had succeeded field, with little change. There were animals in some which he knew were cows. One obtained milk from cows, but how? And anyway the sight of them made him nervous. In other fields there were men and machines. He could not tell precisely what the machines were doing because he had given them as wide a berth as possible. They were silent, presumably powered by fuel cells. He had also kept clear of houses, not that there were
many. The emptiness of this land, which had been surprising and troubling, was becoming monotonous, mind wearying. Rob looked at his swollen feet. He wondered if it would be better to lie up in the shade. But would he be any better able to go on later in the day?

And what was he hoping to achieve? He had come here spurred by hatred of the school, and by the discovery that his mother had been born and lived her early life in the County. He had had this idea of farmlands as places that produced food, but it was not turning out like that. All he had found—all it seemed he would find—were a few small raw potatoes.

He might as well, he thought miserably, give himself up. He would have to do that eventually, or starve.

Someone called in the distance and he looked up quickly. There was a man on horseback in the gap at the end of the field. The call had been to Rob from him. There was a way through to another field on the left, and a wood not far off. If he could only reach it . . . The horseman had started to come
forward. He decided he had no time to put on socks and shoes. He grabbed them and ran.

The field into which he emerged was long but narrow—it was only twenty yards or so to a high hedge separating it from the next field which in turn was bordered by the wood. There was no gap, but Rob saw a place where it looked thin enough for him to squeeze through. He made it with thorns tearing at him and thought he was safe: the horseman would have to find a longer way around and by the time he did Rob would be in the wood. He could surely dodge a man on horseback there. His feet were hurting horribly but he disregarded that. Thirty yards to the wood, perhaps less. He heard another call and glanced over his shoulder. Horse and rider were in midair, clearing the hedge in a jump.

He tried to squeeze extra strength out of his legs. Twenty yards, ten, and hooves thudding in his wake. He would not reach the sanctuary. He wondered if the horseman would ride him down, or slash him with his sword. Then his left foot turned under him and he crashed to the ground. The impact dazed and winded him. He lay gasping and
heard the sound of hooves slacken and cease. The horse was snorting quite close and above him.

Rob looked up. The sun was behind the rider's right shoulder and he could not see him properly for the glare. There was an impression of fairness, of a blue shirt open at the neck. He looked for the sword but could not see one.

The horse moved, jigging, and the rider checked it. The light fell at a different angle and now Rob could see him clearly. He was not a man but a fair-haired boy, not much older than himself.

I
N A QUICK EASY MOVEMENT
the rider vaulted from the saddle. Holding the reins with one hand he extended the other to Rob.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Let me help you up.”

He spoke in a kind of drawl, very confident and assured. Rob got to his feet, wincing. The boy let go of the reins and put both hands reassuringly to Rob's arms.

“You're barefooted,” he said with surprise. “Your feet are bleeding. Here, you'd better sit down and we'll have a look at them.”

Rob was still clutching one shoe—the other, and his socks, he had dropped in the last part of his flight. He did as he was told and the fair-haired boy squatted beside him. His hair was almost gold in color, thick and gleaming on top but cropped close at the back and sides. It fell forward as he lifted Rob's feet and examined them.

“Not too good. Hang on, I've got some water.” He went to the horse and removed a flat, leather-covered flask from the saddle. He poured water into one hand and gently bathed the feet. “They really need dressing.”

“Is there any water left? I'm a bit thirsty,” Rob said.

“Help yourself.”

Rob drank and handed the flask back.

“You're not a countryman, are you?” the boy said.

“Countryman,” he discovered later, was a term used both for farm workers and servants of the gentry.

“I'm from the Conurb.”

The fair boy stared at him. “How did you get here?”

“Across the fence. Well, under it really.”

There was no point in trying to conceal things. He could not get away. The pain in his feet, which he had disregarded while running, was much worse. He wondered whether the boy would make him walk to the nearest police station. And then? He supposed they would take him back to the school but did not much care. He was more angry with himself for having failed, and failed so soon.

There had been a pause. The boy broke it. “I'm Mike Gifford. What's your name?”

Rob told him.

“I've never met anyone from the Conurb. What's it like there?”

Rob gave a gesture of helplessness. “It's a bit difficult to say, just like that.”

“I suppose it would be. What made you come here, anyway?”

He made an attempt to answer that, explaining roughly what had happened since his father's death and what he had learned about his mother. He spoke of his experiences at the school.

“Tough,” Mike said. “They give you a rough time
at the start at my place, but not as bad as that.” He stared at Rob. “The question is: what now?”

He had been decent so far. It might be worth appealing to him.

“You could just forget about finding me.”

“And then?”

“I'll manage.”

“You're crippled. You won't be able to walk for days on those feet.”

“I can lie up somewhere.”

Mike shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The tone was casual but decisive. It had been too much to hope, Rob thought. He remained silent. After a moment or two, Mike said, “How would you live? Do you know how to trap a rabbit, for instance—skin and cook it?”

“No.”

“I
could manage better.” It was not a boast but a statement of fact. “I mean, I could kill game and cook it—that sort of thing. But I wouldn't like to have to live that way for long.”

“I thought I might get work of some kind. I don't mind what.”

“Bit young, aren't you? And they'd want to know
where you came from. Countrymen don't usually move far from their own village.”

He spoke judiciously but it was plain that he thought it a completely harebrained scheme. As it was, Rob realized.

“You're going to report me?”

“We need time to think,” Mike said. “If I could hide you somewhere for the present . . . It's lucky that I'm at home. I ought to have been back at school but I was ill last term and I'm still convalescent. I had glandular fever and then a go of brain fever afterward. So I'm supposed to be taking things easy.”

He did not look ill; the reverse in fact.

“I could make myself some sort of a shelter in the wood, perhaps.”

“No good,” Mike said, frowning. “The keepers are pretty thorough. I could smuggle you into the house, but it wouldn't be safe. My parents and Cecily might not spot you but the servants would. It will have to be outside. Not the stables, because of the grooms.” He snapped his fingers. “I think I've got
it. A cave I found farther up the valley. Well, not so much a cave as a kind of building underground. We could fit it up for you, and I could bring food.”

Could it work? It would give him a chance to lie up, to recuperate. He felt grateful but in a distant, almost disbelieving way. He did not know why the fair-haired boy wanted to help him. A trap of some kind? But at least it was a reprieve.

“I don't mind what it's like,” he said.

“The men will be up in the top fields this afternoon so I could take you around by the river. I'll put you up on Captain.”

Captain was presumably the horse.

“I think I can manage to walk.”

“No.” The refusal had authority. “I'll go and pick up the stuff you dropped. Better get your shoes and socks on for now and we'll see about dressing your feet later.”

Rob did so, wincing. Mike showed him how to mount the horse, explaining how you had to twist the stirrup and stand facing the horse's tail. He spoke soothingly to the horse as Rob scrambled on.

He seemed to be a long way from the ground. And the animal underneath him was unstable, shifting its feet and pulling against Mike's hands holding the reins. Mike called out, “Whoah! Steady, boy. Take it easy.”

The horse quietened but Rob still felt unhappy about it.

“Take the reins,” Mike ordered. “I'll hang on to the snaffle.”

They moved and Rob felt the jolt of the hooves under him. If it was as uncomfortable as this just walking, he wondered, what must galloping be like?

•  •  •

The river ran through a small valley, much closer to one side than the other. A road followed the near bank and above that was wooded country. They had come close to the road at one point and Rob saw that it was brown in color; like earth, but too smooth to be earth. He asked about it, and Mike explained.

“It's a plastic. You have different surfaces in the Conurb? I suppose you would. This is specially made for horses. It's fairly soft and resilient—easy on the hooves.”

“Doesn't it wear quickly?”

Mike shrugged. “Depends how much use it gets. It's only used for horses and carriages, of course. And it's fairly easily repaired. There's a machine that lays and smooths it at about a mile an hour. Look, I'm afraid you're going to have to foot it the rest of the way. I can't get Captain any farther through the trees. It's not far now, though.”

“That's all right. How do I get off?”

“Just cock your leg over.” He watched critically as Rob struggled to dismount. “Hang on while I tie him up.”

The horse whinnied after him as they went away.

“Want to hold on to me?”

“No, thanks.” Rob gritted his teeth. “I'm all right.”

In places they had to force a way through undergrowth. Mike commented that it was a good thing; it was less likely that anyone else would come this way. They were on rising ground, thick with trees of different kinds and sizes. After ten minutes they broke through into a more open space looking up to the crest of the hill, a grassy hump overgrown
with brambles and creepers. Rob looked for the cave but could see nothing.

“Bearing up?” Mike asked. “Over here.”

He led the way across the clearing to a point where the brambles ended. Carefully he pulled at a tangle of thorn. It came clear and there was a way behind it. You had to squeeze close to the side of the hill on one side; on the other you were concealed by the undergrowth.

Mike, pushing ahead of him, said, “I found it when Tess went in after a rabbit. That's my dog. I thought I might turn it into a den or something, but I never did. I left it covered so that no one else would find it. Here we are.”

There was an opening, framed in crumbling concrete, about three feet wide and four high. Rob ducked to follow Mike in. It was dark, because very little light filtered through the tangle of leaves and briars outside. Rob could just see that they were in some sort of chamber, a six-foot cube or thereabouts. Like the doorway it was built of concrete.

“What was it for?” he asked. “Who would want to build something like this, inside a hill?”