But today the old lady had one of her little illnesses and had stayed in bed, not wanting to see anybody except her daughters, and then only to complain to them about something. So now Nicky longed to be out of earshot of the clang of the forge and the thud of the flails, away from the pricking and clotting dust which all this hard work stirred into the air, somewhere else.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said as she threw her core away.
Harpit groaned. Gopal sighed.
“So I shall have to come with you,” he said, “to slaughter your enemies.”
He patted the three-quarter-size sword that swung against his hip. He was very proud of it because Uncle Jagindar said it was the best blade he’d made. One corner of the forge held a pile of snapped blades which hadn’t stood up to the cruel testing the smiths gave them. (“What use is a sword,” Uncle Chacha had asked, “if you strike with it once and then there is nothing left in your hand but the hilt?”) Gopal joined the adults for fencing practice these days.
Now he patted his sword like a warrior and stood up.
“I'm afraid I haven’t got any enemies for you,” said Nicky as she stood too.
“Not even the bad baron?” said Harpit. That was what the children called the giant down in the village. It was funny to think that Nicky was the only one who’d ever seen him.
“No, he’s not my enemy,” said Nicky. “He’s all right — in fact he’s a hero, sort of.”
“I must tell my mother where we’re going,” whispered Ajeet.
“I will tell her,” said Harpit, “and that means I need not come on this idiot expedition. Where are you going, Nicky?”
“Up to the common.”
Despite Gopal’s sword, Nicky was the one who led the way down the curving line of elms and oaks that had been allowed to stay on the boundary between one farm and the next; the ripe barley brushed against their left shoulders; they dipped into the place where the line of trees became a farm track, whose slope took them down to join a magical and haunted lane, untarred, running nearly fifteen feet below the level of the surrounding fields. The hedge trees at the top of the banks on either side met far above their heads, so that the children walked in a cool green silence and looked up into the caverns where the earth had been washed away from between blanched tree roots. In that convenient dark the animals of the night laired. It was a street of foxes.
Then, too soon, they were out into the broad evening sun and turning left up the grassy track to the common. Swayne’s farm, deserted now, stood silent on the corner — mainly a long wall of win-dowless brick, with gates opening into yards where cattle had once mooched and scuffled. Gopal, driven by some impulse to assert himself against the brooding stillness, drew the gray curved blade from his belt and lunged at imaginary foes; with each lunge he gave a grunting cry. The echo bounced off the brick wall on the far side of the farmyard, and died into stillness.
“Please stop it,” said Ajeet. Gopal sheathed his sword, grinning.
The echo continued. It said “Help!”
Nicky climbed the gate into the farmyard. The dry litter rustled under her feet.
“Where are you?” she called.
“Here,” said the faint voice. “Help! I'm stuck!”
They found him in the loft over a cow byre. A ladder lay on the floor of the byre, and in the square black hole in the ceiling a wan face floated. Nicky and Gopal lifted the fallen ladder back into place.
“I can’t climb down,” said the face. “I’ve hurt my foot.” It began to sob.
“I’ll come up and help you,” said Gopal. “Don’t worry. It’s all right.”
“Not you!” wailed the face. “I’ve got a brick. I’ll hit you!”
Gopal took his hand off the rung and shrugged.
Nicky climbed slowly up the ladder. The face shifted in the square, and in the dimness behind she saw an arm move upwards. She stopped climbing.
“It’s quite all right,” she said. “I won’t hurt you. My name’s Nicky Gore. What’s yours?”
“Shan’t tell you.”
The arm with the brick wravered uncertainly. Nicky flinched.
“Look,” she said, “if I’d got magic your brick wouldn’t hurt me, but if I haven’t got magic then you’d be hurting somebody just like yourself, somebody who’s trying to help you.”
“What about him?” said the boy, still panting with sobs.
“He wants to help you too. His name’s Gopal. He’s my friend. And the other one’s Ajeet — she tells wonderful stories.”
“Tell ’em to go away.”
Nicky looked over her shoulder. Ajeet was already floating out like a shadow. Gopal shrugged again, tested the bottom of the ladder and went to the door.
“Be careful,” he said. “I think it’s steady, but not if you start fighting on it.”
Nicky managed a sort of laugh as she climbed into the darkness.
“How long have you been here?” she said.
“I been here all day. I was looking for treasure. There’s a heap of treasure buried up on the common, folk say, but when I come to the farm I thought the farm folk might have found some, so I started looking here, and then I knocked the ladder down, and then I trod on a bit o’ glass and it come clean through my foot . . .”
He was about eight, very dirty, the dirt on his face all streaked with blubbering.
“Wriggle it around over the hole,” said Nicky, “and I’ll have a look.”
He did so, with slow care; his groans sounded like acting, but the foot really did look horrid; the worn sneaker was covered with dried blood and the foot seemed to bulge unnaturally inside the canvas. The laces were taut and too knotted to undo, so Nicky drew her hunting knife (which Uncle Chacha had honed for her to a desperate sharpness) and sliced them delicately through. The boy cried aloud as the pressure altered, then sat sobbing. Nicky realized that she’d probably done the wrong thing. They must get him to an adult as soon as possible.
“Look,” she said, “if I go down the ladder the wrong way around, then you can get yourself further over the hole, and I’ll come back up until you’re sitting on my shoulders. Then I can give you a piggyback down.”
The boy nodded dully. Nicky stepped onto the ladder and went down until her head was below floor level. There she turned so that her heels were on the rungs.
“Now,” she said, “see if you can wriggle your bottom along until your good leg is right over this side. A bit further. Now I’m coming up a rung. I’ll hold your bad leg so that it doesn’t bang anything.” “It hurts frightful when I drop it,” groaned the boy.
“All right, I’ll hold it up. Now you take hold of the ladder, lean forward against my head, and see if you can lift your bottom across so that you’re sitting on the rung. Well done! Now let yourself slide down onto my shoulders; hold on to my forehead. Higher, you’re covering my eyes. Hold tight. Down we go!”
The ladder creaked beneath the double weight. Nicky moved one heel carefully to the next rung, bending her knee out steadily so as to lower the two of them without a jolt. The wounded foot came through the opening with an inch to spare. Each rung seemed to take ages, as the thigh muscles above her bending knee were stretched to aching iron. She’d done five and was resting for the next when the grip on her forehead suddenly gave way.
“Hold tight!” she cried and flung up her hand from the ladder to catch the slipping arm.
“Are you all right?” she said.
There was no answer. The boy’s weight was now quite limp. Fresh blood was seeping, bright scarlet, through the crackled dark rind of the blood which had dried on his shoe before. Gopal, who must have been watching through the doorway, ran in and held the bottom of the ladder. She came down the last few rungs in one rush, trying to hold the boy from falling by forcing the back of her head into his stomach to slide him down the rungs. The top of the ladder bounced and rattled in the trapdoor, but stayed put.