Island of Bones

I.5

Stephen had run hard up the wooded path to the west of the house and now bent over his knees panting. He was already in love with the lake and the hills, and as he left the house to look at the mountains, he found his mind was teeming so with plans for boating, swimming in the lake and climbing each of the peaks, he had felt a sudden urge to dash about that could not be denied. Mr Quince was already showing himself to be the best sort of tutor for such a trip by remarking as Stephen’s plans tumbled out of him that there was no better way to study geography than walking about in it, and he had always thought mathematics best tackled after a long swim.

Around him, oaks and beeches dressed with their summer foliage swung and stretched in the hazy sky. The birdsong was cacophonous: the bark of a chaffinch, the warbling, reaching trill of a yellow-hammer. The calls crossed and cut under each other. The air was full of the smell of dry earth and the competing breaths of wild flowers.

Stephen caught enough of his wind to look up and saw a jackdaw scratching about on the path in front of him. It was smaller than the crows he saw at Caveley and had very bright blue eyes. The feathers on its head were a little grey, giving the impression of a particularly glossy wig.

‘Good day, crow,’ Stephen said, his general good humour spilling over to the whole animal world.

The jackdaw hopped round in a tight circle before it looked over its shoulder at him.

‘Good day,’ it replied with the same lilt that Stephen had heard from the servants in the house.

Alarmed, the boy took a step back, caught his heel on a branch and fell heavily on his behind in the track, mouth still open. The bird fluttered away a little, looking offended. Stephen’s view was suddenly blocked by a pair of legs in brown wool. A hand was extended to him and he found himself pulled to his feet by a man in labouring clothes. He was the colour of the stained wood floors in the nursery in Caveley, and his beard was whitening in places. It was a round, manly-looking face, and smiling. His hair was curly, and he had a great deal of it.

‘You whole there, youngling?’ the man said. Stephen nodded, trying to catch sight of the bird again. ‘Give you a fright, did he?’

‘I was not frightened.’

The man laughed under his breath then whistled, taking something out of his pocket as he did so. The crow fluttered up to his shoulder and allowed the man to scratch his glossy black neck as he ate from his open palm.

‘It spoke,’ Stephen said at last, suspiciously.

‘He does that, he does,’ the man replied. ‘When he has a mind to. Move slowly and he may let you scratch him as I am doing.’ He bent forward, bringing the jackdaw within Stephen’s reach. The boy reached up with great care and pushed his fingers in between the feathers. He had thought they would be soft, but they felt like polished wood and strong. The bird took on a slightly dreamy expression and opened its beak a little with a low growling sound.

‘What is his name?’

The man tilted his head. ‘I can’t say as I know in crow language, but I call him Joe and he’s willing to answer to that.’

‘Joooe,’ said the jackdaw, bobbing a little. Stephen took his hand away quickly and offered it to the man.

‘My name is Stephen Westerman, and I am very pleased to meet you.’

The man took his hand, giving it a smart downward pull that almost dislocated Stephen’s shoulder and set him stumbling again. ‘Casper Grace, so please you, sir.’ He then sat down on a log that formed a natural bench to the right of the path and took various items from his pockets. The jackdaw remained balanced on his shoulder and for the next few moments boy and bird were united in observing the man as he worked with a knife on a half-whittled piece of wood. Stephen became aware that the forest was full of smaller noises under the calling birds — he could hear leaves brushing together where the wind stirred them like a hand in water; somewhere in the distance, a stream was running; as he moved, the forest floor seemed to shush him. Stephen approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the jackdaw, and sat down carefully at the man’s feet.

‘What are you making?’ he said at last.

Without looking up, Casper reached into his pocket and took something from it which he thrust into Stephen’s hand. The boy found himself looking at a neat little carving of a cross that just fitted into his palm. It splayed out towards its four ends and was smooth to the touch, but detailed with an inner line and circle at its centre. The edge was marked out with little dips as if it were decorated with the shadows of something.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said at last. Casper looked up and sniffed.

‘It is a Luck. The Luck of Gutherscale Hall. You may keep it, though don’t tell Askew. He sells them at his museum in the town and doesn’t like it when I give them away for free. Says I am robbing us both. I made it.’

Stephen turned it over and ran his fingertips along the worked edges. ‘I wish I were so clever.’

‘Ha! I’d not say I was clever, lad. Not with wood. Herbs, flowers, blessings maybe, but not so as I’d like with wood. Seems as I can only do these carvings of the Luck.’ He held up the one he was working on and blew on it. ‘I tried to do a portrait of Joe once in wood, but it never came right, did it, Joe?’ The bird lifted its wings and clacked its beak. ‘Good thing Askew can sell these to the Lakers or I’d have a thousand of them by now.’

‘Who are the Lakers, Mr Grace?’

‘Call me Casper, youngling. Why, Lakers are people such as yourself who come to see the Lakes hereabout, of course.’

‘They are very fine.’

Casper looked at him with bright eyes. ‘It is fine country, ain’t it?’ He shot to his feet and grabbed Stephen’s hand. ‘Come with me.’ He raced up the path again, dragging Stephen behind him as the bird fluttered along between perches beside them. Stephen half-stumbled, half-ran along the path, not sure if he was frightened or delighted. Suddenly the trees fell away behind him and he found himself thrust out onto a rough promontory, where the view of the lake made him gasp.

Casper knelt at his side, one arm round his shoulders. He smelled of woodsmoke and tobacco and sweat. Stephen breathed it in deeply. As Casper spoke, he pointed out the hills with his free hand.

‘Now that monster there is Skiddaw — you can see ships at sea from there! Then there is Latrigg, sheltering under her like a young lamb by her mother. There is Crosthwaite Church, white and shining as a blessing. There Keswick sits and whistles and is busy, and beyond that rise there are the stones the Druids left to watch us. That forest is Great Wood, and that great rearing is Castlerigg Fell.’ He placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders a moment to spin him round. ‘Now look up! Look up!’ Stephen stretched his throat to peer at the slopes above him. ‘Causey Pike, and Cragg Hill beyond, and down there, where it all narrows, lie Borrowdale and Rosthwaite. If you are caught there when the snow comes, you must kick your heels till the thaw.’

Stephen tried to repeat the names quietly as they were spoken. ‘Have you climbed all these hills, sir?’

The man flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Mostly, mostly. And many times; some plants favour one spot, others another.’

A voice called from the woodland behind them. ‘Stephen! Stephen, where are you?’

‘That is my tutor, Mr Quince,’ the boy offered confidentially. ‘We are here, sir!’

Mr Quince had been engrossed in West’s guidebook when Stephen took off into the woods, and the heat was making him sweat rather profusely by the time he had caught up. He found his charge standing on the outcrop like a ship’s figurehead. A man in working clothes was lying on the rock behind him, enjoying the same view. Stephen turned towards him.

‘This is Casper Grace, Mr Quince. He has been telling me all the names of things.’

Mr Quince patted his forehead with his handkerchief then put his hand out to the man. Casper scrambled to his feet and shook it. ‘Glad to meet you, Grace.’

‘Oh, just Casper. Casper does me fine, sir.’

‘Mr Grace knows the names of all the mountains,’ Stephen said, then looked abashed. ‘He told me them, but I fear I have forgotten half already.’

‘Do not reproach yourself too much, my boy. They are such a number, and so all on top of each other I have been puzzling to match them to my book.’ Quince tapped the little volume in his pocket. ‘Perhaps if you have not been too troublesome, Mr Grace will consent to be our guide from time to time during our stay.’

Casper shrugged. ‘I’m not in the habit of guiding. Lots of folk do that. I have other business most days, and like to be free to do it.’

‘Oh do, please,’ Stephen said, going so far as to lay a hand on Casper’s arm. ‘Then I may see Joe again.’ He paused, wondering if this might seem a slight. ‘And you too, sir.’

‘Who is Joe?’ said Mr Quince, looking about him.

The bird provided the answer himself, hopping forward and crooning his name. Mr Quince was taken aback.

‘Joe talks,’ Stephen said.

‘So I see. Remarkable.’

Casper smiled, then mussed the boy’s hair and spoke. ‘I am not much with company, Master Westerman. I have my days where I must be off and running lonesome.’

‘Like a wolf?’ Stephen looked up at him.

‘Ha! Yes, though my teeth are not so sharp.’ Casper rubbed his chin. ‘I am out on the hills most of most days, and most of the nights too. Let’s say when we meet if I am not too bothered by the witches and weather, I’ll show you some places.’ He looked down at Stephen again. ‘There’s a vixen in Great Wood likes to show off her cubs to her friends, and Joe and me are friends of hers. Fancy seeing that one day, youngling?’ Stephen nodded. ‘We shall then. Good day!’

Before Stephen or Mr Quince were able to draw breath to thank him or make any farewells, Casper had sprung over the edge of the outcrop, and was lost in the woodland below. The bird turned to them and cawed in a familiar sort of way, then fluttered off after him.

Stephen leaned in towards Mr Quince, and his tutor put an arm around his shoulders.

‘What do you think he meant about witches and weather, sir?’

Quince pondered a second. ‘No doubt it is some saying of the area, my boy. Now all this charging around must have made you hungry. Shall we go and see if there is any food to be had at the Hall?’

Stephen nodded and they made their way more slowly back into the woods. ‘Have you heard of the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, sir?’ he asked, after they had gone a little way.

‘I have read something of it in the guides,’ Quince told him. ‘The legend says it was originally a gift from the fairy people to the most powerful family hereabouts — the Greta family.’

‘I should like to know more of that.’ Stephen had realised he was both tired and hungry. It seemed harder going down the hill than running up it had been. ‘Do you believe in fairies, Mr Quince?’

The tutor laughed. ‘Good lord, no! No doubt the cross was brought over by the Crusaders.’

Stephen looked about him as if searching for a glint among the foliage. ‘I would like to find it.’

‘You did say you wanted to search for dragons,’ Mr Quince reminded him, ‘and they are great guardians of treasure in folklore. Perhaps if we find the dragon, we shall find the Luck tucked under its scaly claw.’

The thought was enough to keep Stephen silent the rest of their return down the slope.