The Monster Hunter Read online

  He wondered whether they were out looking for him and the other missing children, or whether they had waited until dark for the children to return and would now wait for first light to send out a search party, after a doubtless restless sleep.

  The camp was soon alive with music. One by one, the Gypsies sang songs of love and the road. Some were sad, others were happy and one or two were certainly risqué, making Rosalie laugh at how wide Ben’s eyes became at some of the lyrics.

  Eventually a kind-looking woman with a face not to dissimilar to Rosalie’s approached the children. Ben recognised her as the woman from Father Mick’s caravan.

  ‘Right, you two, the men are starting to take to the bottle quite heavily now, so I think you should be off to bed. I’ve made you up a place for your tiger to sleep as well.’ The woman smiled at Ben and led the children to a caravan and up the wooden steps into the cocooned interior.

  The inside was hung with yet more traps and a selection of heavy copper pots and pans. A raised bed to one side with ornate carvings had been made up so that the children could cuddle up under the covers. Ben felt a little uncomfortable at the familiarity of the whole situation, but Rosalie simply shed her clothes down to a simple cotton under-dress and clambered on to the bed heavy with patchwork quilts and blankets and disappeared beneath, her head appearing seconds later at the other side. Ben slipped off his shoes and coat but decided that it was enough to be going on with and joined Rosalie in the bed.

  He was expecting excited conversation from the chatty girl but was surprised to find that she was already asleep, her body rolled towards the wooden wall. Ben didn’t find slumber as quickly; in fact, he stayed awake for some time listening to the muffled sounds of the Gypsies talking and singing outside, and worrying about how much trouble he would be in back at the orphanage. He was starting to think it was maybe a good idea to stay with the Gypsies for ever when he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  Hunters

  Ben was awoken by the movements of Rosalie, who was already up and moving around. He was going to say good morning but realised that she was washing and would need her privacy. Before he rolled over to turn his eyes away, he noticed her bare back had bruises and old wounds across it. If he hadn’t known she was a girl and a Gypsy, he would have considered the scars and bruises the result of a punishment on board a ship.

  ‘You awake?’ came the happy voice of Rosalie.

  Ben thought for a second before replying, wondering whether pretending to still be asleep was the better part of valour. ‘Yes,’ he said with the sleepiest of voices.

  ‘I thought so: you snore like a walrus when you’re sleeping. I pocked you in the ribs twice to get you to stop.’

  Ben felt embarrassed. He hadn’t been told about his snoring since Ceylon and then it had been by his mother. She had always joked that there was an elephant in the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, being careful to not roll over and face the young Gypsy girl.

  ‘Don’t be – I got used to it in the end, you were so warm it was like sleeping with a hibernating bear. I cuddled up eventually and fell asleep too.’

  Ben was mortified at the thought of the girl cuddling up to him and he was even more upset by the fact he had slept through the whole exchange. ‘I warmed some water for us to wash in. You might want to freshen up before I take you back to the orphanage. There’s some soap on the shelf. I’ll give you some privacy.’

  He heard the door shut and the caravan fell silent. Ben rolled over and watched the steam of the bowl rise into the cool morning air. He stretched and clambered out of the warm bed. He washed carefully and dressed before stepping out into the fresh morning, still heavy with dew. Mist still curled around the bottom of the trees, while steam rose from the area in which the pigs snuffled and foraged. The embers of the campfire still burned brightly and the smoke circling upwards through the canopy suggested it hadn’t been long since the revellers had gone to sleep.

  ‘There’s a couple of cobs left we can have for breakfast. I’m afraid the stew’s all gone, though.’ Rosalie threw one of the hard rolls to Ben and pointed at the overturned stew pot, the head of the wire-haired terrier buried deep inside it, his tail wagging furiously.

  ‘Right, let’s start you off back home. We don’t want your people thinking we’ve kidnapped you. We get a bad enough rap for stealing babies as it is. Don’t want Constable Bobbins poking his nose around again.’ Rosalie seemed to be gathering up provisions and unhooking traps from the sides of carts as she spoke. ‘Why would anyone want to steal a baby?’ she said, suddenly walking towards Ben, a small bundle now tied to her back. Ben shrugged. ‘I mean what use is a baby?’ she continued. ‘They can’t do anything; they just take up your time and eat your food; and besides Uncle David makes enough babies of his own. They shouldn’t be worried about us taking them, more about us leaving them behind!’

  Ben felt as though he’d just been caught in a sudden hailstorm as Rosalie walked passed him, her brow knitted in thought. He took one last lingering look at the camp.

  ‘Come on, Tiger. We need to get you back,’ shouted the retreating voice of Rosalie.

  Ben turned and followed, hoping that it wouldn’t be the last he saw of the Gypsies

  As he caught up with Rosalie, she was already forming a question so he missed the first part ‘…I’m guessing. So are you going to be in trouble?’

  Ben gave Rosalie a confused look.

  ‘At the orphanage.’

  ‘I don’t really know. It depends if anyone was really worried or not. Children can go missing all the time from orphanages; it’s only really seen as a problem if you have someone to worry about you.’

  ‘And do you have someone to worry about you?’ The question was so simple but it wasn’t one that Ben had ever asked himself. In the grand scheme of things he didn’t think he did. He’d only really had his mother and that had been enough for a young boy.

  ‘No,’ he replied without emotion; it was simply a fact not a cause for sadness. He had been alone for almost three years now; it was a situation that crept up on him so stealthily that he hadn’t even noticed what had happened. Rosalie didn’t question him further but simply walked beside him in silence for a while. However a new question clearly took hold of her as they finally left the forest and entered into the warm morning light.

  ‘Why were you running?’

  Ben sighed and was about to answer honestly when he felt a smile cross his face. ‘BECAUSE IT’S FUN!’ he shouted and rushed off across the opening field scattering sheep as he went. Rosalie laughed and ran after him. She could feel her lungs opening up as she gave chase great gulps of fresh morning air filling her making her heart pound inside her chest until she could hear its beat in her ears matching her heavy footfalls on the compact ground. Ben was fast – she had seen him run before – but if he was a tiger she was an antelope, and from what she knew they could outrun their stripy predators. She doubted whether an antelope had ever tried to catch a tiger, however.

  Ben found a stile and was over it in two graceful steps. Rosalie went for the gate and with, one hand on the top, sailed through the air. Ben could run but she could flee – running was just going fast whereas fleeing was getting to a spot quickly and safety. She closed the gap and soon was ahead of Ben on the path.

  For a moment they had been side by side. Ben, feeling the freedom of the great outdoors, had suddenly been joined by his companion and he took the chance to look at her. But in doing so his pace slowed and she ran past with a determined look on her face. As she moved from his vision, he suddenly realised they were running alongside the lip of the quarry and he could clearly see the island coming into view at the centre. He felt his legs slow down and without warning he stopped. His breath was all gone and he was gasping from the exertion.

  Rosalie chanced a glance back and when she saw no boy following her she assumed that he had tripped. She slowed and turned, running back the way she had come until she could see him standing, hands o
n hips at the edge of the quarry.

  As she ran to his side, Ben smiled at her and waited for her breathing to become slow. He watched as she arched her back and took a great chestful of air from the sky. She bent forward, panting.

  ‘Why … did … you … stop?’

  Ben pointed down at the island. ‘I was running from there.’

  The two sat at the quarry’s edge as Ben told Rosalie the story of the creature on the island and what it had done to the children. He left out no detail. He told her of the sickness and of Charity Poppy’s death. He told her about the cherries and his poison theory. He told her too about how he had no friends at all at the orphanage and about Nanny Belle and how she had helped.

  Rosalie said nothing. She just listened and nodded with rapt attention. Only once did she seem to have lost interest when she plucked a long stem of grass, broke it at its elbow-like joint and put it into her mouth to suck. He was about to tail off when he remembered the figure of Uncle David sitting on the caravan steps smoking his long-stemmed pipe, not out of a need for a smoke but because it helped him think. Rosalie was now doing the exact same action with the stem of grass, so Ben continued until his story was spent and the two figures sat quietly side by side, looking at the island.

  It’s a strange feeling when someone actually listens to you. Not sitting waiting to talk or give answers but actually listening. Rosalie had done just that: why would she need to ask questions when she hadn’t heard all there was to say. It was only when Ben finished talking that her brain started working through all it had just been told. Finally she stood up.

  ‘OK, let’s kill it,’ she said with a certainty in her voice, but when she realised that Ben hadn’t jumped to his feet, she added: ‘You do want to, don’t you?’

  Ben realised that he did; in fact, since it had burst from the ground and started coming at him all his mind had been screaming was ‘KILL IT!’ He had chosen to run because, as much as your mind may scream what it wants to do, it has also silently given you all the reasons why you can’t or shouldn’t.

  Ben stood. ‘Yes I do. I just don’t know how.’

  ‘You’re a tiger.’ Rosalie laughed. ‘Use your instincts.’

  ‘And failing that?’ added Ben.

  ‘Failing that…’ The Gypsy girl looked around and pulled something from the grass. ‘…Use a big stick.’ She handed Ben the recovered branch. It was old but had been cut from an apple tree and thrown aside, so it was still strong with no rot. It had a good thick staff to it and, where it had grown against the tree, a knotted growth like a club.

  ‘What about you?’ said Ben, more concerned that he was being made to go on this part of his adventure alone rather than the fact Rosalie was without her own weapon.

  Rosalie put her hand to her chest and the back of her other hand to her forehead ‘My brave tiger will protect me,’ she said, like a well-practised travelling player saddled with the role of damsel.

  ‘OK.’ Ben tried to make the word sound confident. ‘Try to keep behind me then.’

  Again Rosalie laughed. ‘I’m not going up there unarmed! That thing sounds vicious. I’m going to take my knife.’ And with this she pulled a wooden-handled blade from her backpack. ‘I use it to send the rabbits home,’ Ben was certainly relieved.

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Of course I do – we’re friends.’ Rosalie headed off down the slope. Ben followed behind, a warmth creeping through his heart at these simple yet powerful words.

  They climbed the chalk island together to the isolated copse of trees and the home of the creature. Ben found it hard-going as his needed to pass his wooden club from hand to hand to get a better grip as he scrabbled up the steep slope.

  On the edge of the trees Rosalie stopped and listened. She took the square of material from around her neck and untied another from her arm dousing them both in a lot of water from her corked bottle.

  ‘Tie it around your mouth and nose,’ she said, handing one to Ben. ‘When I was little my mother used to do this to stop the campfire making me cough. It might work on this thing’s smoke.’

  Both Ben and Rosalie tied the wet handkerchiefs around their faces, and Ben thought it looked like they were playing at bandits. He led the way and tiptoed through the undergrowth until he could see the pit-like indentation full of gravel. He was glad that none of the children were about. With any luck they had recovered and gone home. He preferred not to think of the alternative.

  ‘That’s it,’ whispered Ben. He looked over his shoulder and was pleased that she wasn’t pushing past him; it seemed as though she was now as wary as him.

  ‘Is it home?’ she whispered though she was aware that Ben would have no way of knowing. ‘If it was a rabbit hole, I’d snare the exits.’

  Ben gave her a look. ‘Can we do that? I think this is its only way out.’

  Rosalie shrugged. ‘I guess so,’ she said quietly, reaching into her pack and pulling out a snare wire already crafted into a loop. She edged forward to the hole and placed the loop gently on to the gravel. Ben stood on guard, club raised like a cricket bat. He heard Rosalie whisper to herself ‘as big as a pit-bull terrier’ and she adjusted the loop so that it was slightly smaller. Then, retreating to the other end, she drove a peg deep into the ground to hold the snare in place.

  No sooner had she hammered the peg home than the gravel started to move. The now familiar head of the creature breached the small tumbling stones, the stalk-like eyes were pulled back tight to its head like a snail’s when it is protecting them, but the moment it was free of the ground they extended like eye-tipped horns. Its segmented body and digger-like front legs followed the head as normal, except this time as it rose up the snare tightened around its ‘neck’, or at least where the neck should be. At the sudden constriction, the creature panicked and started to flail about, its many tiny legs kicking the gravel about in sprays of tiny rocks.

  Its body started to inflate, but this time Ben did not ignore the screaming voice inside his head and swung his makeshift club forcefully. The impact was satisfying and he felt it in his forearms, but although the snared creature fell on to its side it quickly rose up again. Ben brought the club back hard, knocking the creature the other way with his backswing. The beast went down again but the knobbly bit of Ben’s club broke off, leaving him with just a splintered branch.

  Rosalie saw the beast rise again, although this time more slowly. All the same, it was certainly inflating as Ben had described. Without fear of being hit by Ben’s club she reached forward and ran her blade just beneath where her snare was biting into the neck. The blood came fast and sticky along with wisps of smoke from which Rosalie retreated, not sure whether her wet handkerchief idea would work that well. The beast fell back on to the gravel and Ben pushed the now-splintered spear through its body so that more smoke billowed around the wooden shaft. He was about to pull the makeshift weapon free when the creature sank into the gravel as if it was on tar or sinking sand. It was strange to see the stake disappearing into the ground, following the creature to who knew what depths in the chalk island. Rosalie cut her snare’s wire and they watched the branch and the wire disappear into the ground.

  It had in all honesty been an easy kill and a lot faster than Ben had thought it would be, but then they had had the advantage of surprise. Ben was suddenly reminded of how quickly his mother had torn the head from the creature on the hill and yet it had still got back up again.

  ‘Do you have a lantern in your pack?’ he asked Rosalie urgently, and without hesitation she scrabbled behind herself before passing him a Davy lamp. Ben unscrewed the base and poured the oil over the stones, watching as it sank between them.

  ‘And a light?’

  Rosalie shook a big box of Lucifer matches and handed them to her fellow hunter. After a couple of practice goes Ben struck the match and the air filled with the smell of sulphur before he dropped the match on to the oil and watched the flames lick hungrily over the rocks, consuming the f
lammable liquid before the flame also sank between the rocks, chasing the poured oil on to the body of the sinking creature below.

  Soon dark acrid smoke was curling up through the gravel.

  ‘I think that’s our cue to go,’ said Rosalie and the pair quickly headed out of the copse of trees and off the island. Ben felt an inner elation at standing up to his fear and he felt like an obstacle had been crossed.

  Rosalie was quiet as they walked across the quarry floor, glancing up at the rising plume of smoke coming from the island. She had seen a lot of creatures, even seen a lot of the pickled foetuses sideshow men exhibited at freak shows as unknown creatures, but she had never seen the likes of the creature on the island. She collapsed down dramatically on a raised patch of earth and grass and removed her handkerchief.

  ‘What was that? A land lobster?’ she said aloud.

  Ben removed his own wet face mask and mopped his brow with it, before remembering it was something of Rosalie’s and not one of the rags from the oyster farm.

  ‘Certainly looked like a lobster,’ Ben agreed, sitting down on the same raised mound beside his friend. ‘Why did it live in the ground like that and what was with the smoke?’

  Rosalie thought for a moment. ‘It had lost its shell – some kind of evolution thing from being on land – and the smoke was its ways of protecting itself.’ Ben nodded at her words. It all made sense when you weren’t frightened and being chased.

  ‘I’m glad it’s gone, all the same.’

  Eventually the two picked up their possessions and headed off down the path. Two figures were walking towards them and it turned out to be Mr Reed and Constable Bobbins. Although they were a way off, both of the children could hear the adult’s voices on the wind.

  ‘See, there he is, all safe and sound. I told you the boy had just gone walkabout.’ It was the well-meaning tone of Robert Bobbins.

  ‘He won’t be safe and sound when I get to him. Poor Trinity has been beside herself since he bumped into her yesterday and ran off; she’s been locked in her room recovering.’ Mr Reed sounded angry and he waved his hand above his head as he approached as if hailing the pair.