“Things have changed,” he said. I fixed my gaze on his bony feet, as one slid over the other. “There is no one to help, but also no one to interfere. We can’t call in the psychologists—which is, quite frankly, a blessing in disguise—but the children are traumatized, and we have to show them the way back from this dark place. Do you see? We have to raise them on bedrock now. At a time like this, they need bedrock. Not quicksand.”
“You should write a book,” I said. It was satisfying, in a fleeting way, to see him tut and turn away. But at the same time, I felt a dull jolt of recognition, a lurching flash of my train leaving the tracks. A yearning for sound footing. Roots. Bedrock.
“I tried to return Billy straight away,” he went on. “But you and your friend were both out, and I couldn’t leave him in the camp alone with the other children. It wouldn’t be fair on them to be responsible for such a little one. So it was unfortunate that it went on rather longer than I intended.” He let out a cleansing breath, as though this counted as a heartfelt apology.
Unfortunate. It was all most unfortunate. The scab behind my ear gave with a pleasing sting. I rubbed blood between my fingertips until it turned to rubbery grime that I flicked into the trees. Even if it was true that the kids had been left alone in the camp while Joni went out looking for Lola and I was hunting for Billy, every condescending word from this man’s lips seeded indignation that spread like a weed until I was too overrun to speak. I tucked the crowbar under my armpit and walked down the stone steps. Along a path through the trees, I could see straight down to a wide stubble field and across to our campsite. But he wasn’t finished with me.
“He’s a delightful child, Billy. A credit to you. In my day, we would have corrected him to the right hand, of course, but that is considered old-fashioned now.”
I carried on walking.
“I was a headmaster once. A minor preparatory school, so—” He paused to allow time for me to be impressed. Almost as I got out of range, he said, “I had a son, too.”
I stopped at the end of the path. Is this another excuse? “I miss my child—so I took yours?”
“I’m sorry your son died,” I said.
He stood at the top of the Lonely Steps, rolling the acorn beneath a bare foot. He kept three photos of his boy, but none of the mother. Perhaps any normal person would have been curious. Perhaps in normal circumstances, I would have felt a pang of sympathy. But I couldn’t shoulder his despair alongside my own. I couldn’t carry any more guilt than I already lugged with me from moment to regretful moment. And weren’t they all dead now, anyway—all the sons? Apart from mine. My children were alive, and I intended to keep them that way.
“Where’s the Hoar Wood?” I called to him.
He explained how to find the pathway from the Bury Ditches.
“Remember what I said, Mr. Tumnus,” I shouted over my shoulder, and gave Billy’s toy gun a wave in the air as a general reminder of its existence. “Stay out of our camp.”
“And remember what I said, Marlene. Those children need bedrock.”
I gave him a one-finger salute above my head and heard him tutting as I strode away.
Chapter Thirteen
The sun dipped below the ridge of the Long Mynd as I strode back across the field to collect the car. Dusk leached out of the forest and spread over the fields. A sharp cry from high above alerted me to an arrow of geese, their beaks aimed south, and their wings thrumming the evening air. Their faces were rapt like pilgrims, leading the peloton to a better place. My mind filled with an image of another peloton. Boys flying along together, wheel spokes thrumming the air, the wind in their faces. Don’t look back, I thought. And then I shouted it as the geese powered overhead.
“Don’t look back!”
I ran a few steps after them, my legs heavy on the land and the backpack clattering against my spine, but their pumping wings soon became silhouettes, and then dots, and then clear air. They never looked back.
At the camp, I slid down from the Beast and squinted through the darkness to make out Peter and Charlie’s booby trap. At just the right height, the sunset glow caught the thin wire, and I was able to step cleanly over it. I smiled at their ingenuity.
As I came up the steep slope, I heard Joni’s low drawl, taming the kids with a story. One of their favorites, Where the Wild Things Are. Billy was sitting between her outspread legs beside a plump campfire. The light flickered across his face, warming the soft skin behind his ear. Maggie was chewing a marshmallow off a stick, which she then passed to the Lost Boy, who sat close beside her. Peter and Charlie silently role-played staring into one another’s monstrous eyes.
“It’s rumpus time!” announced Joni.
She leapt up, and all the kids joined her as they circled the campfire, performing war cries and tribal chants and ululating songs. “Hookah-lakah, hookah-lakah. Wokah-wokah-wokah-wokah. Ah-yee!”
“And sit down!” Joni’s deep whisper cut through the ruckus, and they scurried back to their places. Somehow, they knew exactly what to do. Sure-footed on her bedrock. She folded herself down in the middle of their circle and picked up the story. I walked into the camp just as the lost child got home.
Billy saw me first, and the spell was broken.
“Mum-may!” He clamped on to my knees.
“It’s past our bedtime!” said Maggie.
“Quick, get to bed!” said Charlie.
They scattered like mice, leaving just Joni. “Lola?”
I brought home disruption and disappointment. Quicksand. As soon as I told Joni about the Hoar Wood, she snatched up her car keys and faded into the night.
I carried Billy to his sleeping bag and stroked his soft spot with a curling finger as though I was stealing icing from a cake, like I might actually be able to eat him all up. I thought of the times I’d chased him around the house, threatening to bite his bum. The times I pretended to chow down on his soft tummy. Put him between two slices of buttered bread and have him for my tea. How his joyous laughter—she loves me so much—was tinged with a juicy tang of fear—she’s wild with love. I thought about the story Joni had just told, of a fierce love, the kind that devours.
Billy turned his head and slept. I went to settle Maggie, who was top to tail with the Lost Boy. Her hair was knotted around a sticky burr, and I untangled it, pulling it out strand by strand until it was free. By the time I’d finished, she, too, was asleep. The Lost Boy stared off into the darkness, and I patted his knee under the cover and let him be. Peter and Charlie took longer, as they needed to hear all about the man and his aloney steps and the strange house. “No, he didn’t say why he lived alone in the forest.” “No, he isn’t an outlaw.” “No, he doesn’t want to hurt us, at least I don’t think so.” “Why not? Gut feeling.” “Yes, I know I sound like Joni.” I stood up to leave: “But you boys must never go there by yourself, understood?”
“Understood.”
Afterward, I sat by the fire and rubbed my index finger across the underside of my wrist. It was the closest I could get to Billy’s silken ear. I rubbed it and settled down to wait for Joni to come back from the Hoar Wood. Later, a rumble of tires woke me, and I sprang to my feet in time to hear one set of footsteps climbing the granite path. I went to the food tent and brought Joni a bowl of her own hot soup.