The Night Rainbow (23 page)

A whole hillside is on fire. Not our one but over past the wing turbines. The turbines are turning, their white wings going in and out of the clouds of smoke. At the bottom of the black smoke I can see flickers of orange flame.

Hello, says Margot. But she is not talking to me. She is on the telephone. Yes this is Margot and Pea. We are calling to tell you about a fire. Please can you send somebody to put it out? She looks over at me and sticks her thumb up. Please hurry, she says into the telephone. Then, Thank you.

They are on their way, she tells me.

That’s good news, I say.

I told them to come quickly.

I hope they do, I say. I am worried that if they don’t hurry the wing turbines will set on fire.

Listen, says Margot, and far away I hear the
pin-pon-pin
noise of fire engines. I am really surprised.

How did you do that? I say.

Margot smiles and wiggles her shoulders. I’m magic, she says.

Just then there is a buzzing in the sky. We look up but the plane is flying past the sun and it is too bright-white to look at even if we squint. Eventually it comes into the blue. It is heading right for the smoke.

I don’t think that is very sensible, says Margot.

Nor me, I say, and we stare at the little plane flying right into the fire. It disappears behind a hilltop, but I can still hear the buzzing.

We have to get over there, says Margot, pointing down past some rocks and bushes, so we can see.

The fire doesn’t seem to be coming that fast towards us; I think we could run away if we had to, so I agree. There is a sort of a path through the prickly yellow coconut bushes and the lavender, where the ground isn’t as rocky, so we follow that. It leads us through big thick bushes covered in flowers like fried eggs. Things skitter away, rustling as we pass.

I wonder where that plane will go when it gets burned up, I say as we walk. Dead oak leaves the colour of bread crusts scrunch under our feet.

It would disappear, says Margot.

But where would the disappeared parts be?

Oh, says Margot. I don’t know. I will have a look on the internet.

It can’t just be there and then not be.

Why not? says Margot. Lots of things do that.

But it must go somewhere.

No, the internet says they just disappear, says Margot. Think about it. If all the dead and broken things had to be put somewhere then our planet would just be a big pile of dead and broken things and we’d have to be climbing over it all the time.

Well, then what about the dead trees that are our floor?

You ask a lot of questions, says Margot.

The path has taken us up a little hill and in between some pine trees. And here we find a very strange thing indeed. There is a house for a very small person, built out of stones. Not stones like our house, though. This one has only got four stones but they are enormous, like squashed boulders. Bigger than people. They have round edges like pebbles but they are not smooth, they are rough. One of the stones is the back of the house, two are the sides. But the strangest thing is the roof, which is just one very big flat rock, balanced on the not-flat tops of the other three.

This, says Margot, is where people used to hide from tigers in the olden days.

Weren’t they worried that the roof might fall off?

They were more frightened of tigers than roofs.

I give the top stone a push. It doesn’t budge.

Inside it is shady and cool and feels like a cave. It is just the right height for me to stand up without banging my head. There is a pile of pine cones and pine needles but nothing else.

It is a shame there are no tables and chairs, says Margot.

Maybe no one lives here now, I say. Maybe I could bring the biscuit tin here and then we wouldn’t have to cross the stream any more. This could be our girl-cave on Windy Hill and we can come here even when it is hot and shelter from storms and bring Claude and Merlin for picnics. And no one would ever find us. Ooh, look at this!

There is a big red stain on one of the walls. We run our fingers along it to see if it comes off but it doesn’t. I wonder what could have made it.

Also we would need to have a proper door, to keep the tigers and the crocodiles out, I say. And a window so that it wasn’t too dark with the door shut.

And a casserole, says Margot. And a sink we could reach to wash our hands.

And some electricity for at night. And some books to read.

Yes, Margot agrees.

I sit down at the entrance and look out at the view. You can see everything from here, all of the hills and the wing turbines and right out over the
étangs
. The wing turbines are still turning fast, in and out of the black smoke. The buzzing noise is coming closer. The plane is flying away from the fire and it is not burnt up at all. It is spraying water on to the fire as it goes.

A flying fire engine! I say.

I asked for one of those as well, says Margot, and I laugh.

The plane has flown backwards and forwards to the fire and dropped a lot of water on it but it is still burning. There is a part of the hill that is black and empty, with no fire, but there are still orange flames and black smoke on the hill.

When the plane is here we watch it dropping the water, and when it is gone we look around at our new cave place. There are a lot of interesting things here. For example, in the branches of the nearest pine tree are big balls of cobweb. They look like a place where an enormous spider would live, but they are not. I know what they are, because they are dangerous and Maman has warned me about them a lot. They are where the marching caterpillars live. The caterpillars are fat and hairy. I imagine them all coming out of their cobweb ball and marching in a long snaky line, down the tree trunk and across the floor. They are heading straight for my legs. I wonder what would happen if I did not move. If the hairy caterpillars walked right on to my foot and up my leg. Over my hair and down the other side and off me again, as though I were a bridge. Would I get stung and poisoned and die? Would I disappear for ever, or would I still be here, but dead, so no one would ever be able to make any more ripples on me?

I wonder what it is that’s on fire, says Margot.

Everything, I say. We’d better go and check that Maman is OK.

When we get home Maman is in the courtyard with a colander full of chopped-up onions. She is peeling them at the table, sitting under the parasol with her feet in a bucket of water. All around her are the socks and knickers, going very crispy in the sun. She has the kitchen window open, and the radio is playing a song about a blue lady.

Did you have a nice sleep, Maman?

Yes, thank you.

Have you seen the fire?

Yes, she says. And smelled it.

Why are you sitting out here in the smell?

It’s worse in the house. Maman rubs the onion tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Shall I fetch you a drink?

Maman looks up at us and smiles. Thank you, she says, that would be lovely.

There is nothing in the fridge to drink, and I don’t think the outside tap is a good idea, so I have to find a way to reach the sink. I pull a chair over and climb up to run her a glass of water. Maman spots me through the window and smiles. I smile back. Then, Maman stands up awkwardly, as though she were playing the game where you have to carry a balloon between your knees without dropping it.

What is she doing? asks Margot.

I don’t know.

Maman carries the bucket over to the barn, her feet making footprints all the way across the courtyard. By the barn she picks up the yard brush. She dips it in the water and starts trailing it behind her.

Maman’s gone potty, says Margot.

Maybe she’s cleaning the courtyard, I say.

She would use the hose.

Hmmm, yes.

She’s writing letters with the brush.

Letters?

Yes, letters.
i
. . .
l
 . . .

Maman writes in water on the stones of the courtyard. As she writes, I spell out the words.

i

love

you

When she has finished she looks up at me and smiles just like Merlin when he fetches a stick that Claude has thrown far.

Inside I light up like the morning after a storm, and rush back outside to give her a hug. Maman is leaning on the brush looking happy. But as I get closer, her face sours up. She grabs me by the shoulders, staring at my front.

What have you done to your dress? she gasps.

I look down. Oh. It’s dead-bird blood, I say. From this morning.

Bird blood? What could you possibly have been doing to get . . . oh never mind, I don’t want to know.

The onion from Maman’s fingers is prickling my eyes.

Get upstairs, she says. Clean yourself up.

From my bedroom window I sneak a look back down into the courtyard. The sun is already drying up the water. With my finger in the air, I trace over the last dissolving letters of
you
, but then it is as if she had never written it.

At supper time there is a strange feeling in the kitchen. Maman has made ratatouille. She heaps our plates with yellow couscous and spoons the rainbow sauce on top. The food is too colourful for our moods. Maman seems to agree. She doesn’t eat hers at all, just sits at the end of the table and fans herself with a table mat. We have glasses of water with ice cubes that crackle and clunk against the glass as they melt.

You’re quiet, Maman says.

It wasn’t such an interesting afternoon in the meadow, I say. And I’m sorry about my dress.

She nods. Thank you for cleaning the other clothes, she says.

You’re welcome, I say.

I wonder how long I have to sit at the table before I can go to bed.

Chapter 17

We have played hide and seek. We have poked around in the fairies’ garden. We have picked four-leaved clovers (two) and we have paddled in the stream. We have made guns out of plantain stalks and popped them at each other. It is hot and we are thirsty. We have climbed the trees and eaten some apples, a little bit sour but not too bad. Not enough juice to make the thirst go away, though. We have picked through the blackberries and found some that were ripe at last. We have eaten a handful. Sweet, soft, but still not enough juice. We have eaten handfuls of elderberries, but they taste like lemons and make me even thirstier. There is nothing by the girl-nest again. No water. Nothing. No sign of Merlin and no sign of Claude. It is too early to go home.

What did we do before we had Claude and Merlin to play with? I say to Margot.

It was just you and me, she says.

But what did we do?

This and that, she says. Margot is not so funny today.

The meadow seems empty without Claude. We’ve been here all day, waiting. I wonder what we did to make him cross, I say.

Perhaps he’s sick, says Margot.

He could be, I say, or maybe he died.

Right, says Margot, that’s it. We have to say a decision. What if Claude needs help and no one is helping him? Maybe only we know he is in terrible danger.

Yes, I say. We have to investigate.

We cross the road carefully and walk along the edge until we reach his gate. Heat comes up off the road and down from the sky. The tarmac is sticky under my sandals, shining in the sunlight. Claude’s gate is open and I click the latch closed behind me. In the driveway is a car. It is the same blue as blue jay feathers; it looks old, but clean. It snaps with Claude. I run my finger along it on the way by.

The car is a clue, says Margot.

By the front door is a spade, a dirty one.

The spade is a clue, says Margot.

I reach up to the metal door knocker and clonk it three times. No one answers.

We are standing outside the door to Claude’s house, and I am not sure what to do next. It has been three days now since he came to the low meadow.

What if Claude is dead? I say. There won’t be anyone to look after Merlin. If Claude doesn’t give Merlin his food and drink, Merlin will die.

Maybe Merlin has a clue, says Margot.

Do you understand his talking? I ask her. I don’t.

I can try, she says.

So I call the dog. Merlin!

There is no bark. I shout louder. Merlin! It’s me, Pea!

Nothing at all. It is scary-quiet at Claude’s house.

This is a big clue, says Margot.

Something is wrong and the darkness is in my stomach.

We have to do something grownup, says Margot. Maybe we should call the police?

How do you call the police? I say.

I don’t know, actually, says Margot.