WELL, THIS WON’T buy the child a new frock.
He drank from the river as much as he could, took the bread from the pool where it had been soaking, and ate half of it. He dipped the tin mug into the water and filled it, then he stood, straightened his back, and set off along the shore, slowly, carefully, trying not to slop from the mug, which he held in one hand, the compass in the other, following N.
There was no shade from the sun, and, as it rose higher, the compass pointed towards it.
Ay, you would! Get on, then, chase-yer-arse! See if I’m frit!
The water and the sky became one light, and the bread began to harden in his shirt. He sucked the bread until there was no more to be got from it. His head ached. He put the bread by a tussock, and the mug with it, holding down the compass, and went into the sea. He sat, and dipped his head in the waves. The water burnt his face, but it cooled him. He looked around. There was only the shore, backed by hills, stretching in front and behind, so that, without the compass, both ways would have been the same. The river was lost, and there was no sign of any other.
When the sun was lowering, he came out of the water and went back to the tussock. The mug and the compass were as he had left them, but the bread had gone.
What the ferrips?
There were crumbs in the sand. Some were moving.
He looked closely. The crumbs were being carried by ants.
He picked up the crumbs that were lying and ate each one as if it were a meal. He felt a stab of fire at his foot. An ant had taken hold of his flesh. He knocked it away, and the body snapped off, leaving the head still in him.
Best be doing, said Grandad.
William took up the mug and the compass, checked the N, and moved forward.
He was thirsty. He sipped at the water. It was not enough. He dipped a piece of meat into the mug, and sucked that. But the brine was stronger than the water, and his thirst grew. His ankle throbbed and was swelling. To drink was all his head could hold. But he would not.
The sun dried his clothes, and they stiffened with the salt. The seams rubbed him so that he cried out. His hand shook, and water splashed over the rim. He knelt and tried to save the spillage, but the sand had taken it. He drank. He could not stop. He could not stop. He tilted the mug and stretched for more, but he touched nothing but metal.
William looked along the N into the fret of sea and light and land. Nothing.
Nowt.
Best be doing, then, said Grandad.
William cast around with his head. The sun hurt as much as his ankle.
Nothing.
He turned, and set off back the way he had come. He could hobble.
He fell into the river in the purple light. He put his head under the clear stream until he had no breath. Then he pulled himself out and lay by the bank, and chewed some meat.
Well, this won’t buy the child a new frock.
He had lain in the shade by the river and cooled his leg in the water until the swelling had gone. There was no more bread, and only enough meat to last him to China, but he reckoned the folks there wouldn’t let him starve, for all they were blue. He filled his mug with water.
He followed his footprints in the sand, past where he had sat in the sea, a half day more, but the meat made him drink, and he got back to the river because the grass had become dewed in the night.
Well, this won’t buy the child a new frock.
He filled his mug, and set off in the dark, not drinking, but licking the grass until day, and all that day he did not eat, but the mug was emptied and he had reached no water. On the way back, another night came, and he tried not to eat, but had to, and he coughed and spewed, but he found the river before dawn, and was safe.
Well, this won’t buy the child a new frock.
He watched two whole moons go round before he felt strong enough to leave the river, and even so he had to turn back to it again, while he could.
Well, this won’t buy the child a new frock.
He came to new water. It was a stream that he must have nearly reached before, but he had always stopped too soon. He dipped his head and gulped. The water was salt, scalding his face and shrivelling his throat. He did not remember how he got back to the river.
He practised. He made himself do with less and less water, until he could go for three days without putting the mug in the river. But he knew that did not mean there would be another river, however many days he walked.
Well, this won’t buy the child a new frock.
There was no more meat. He could fill his mug, and he could stand.
All night and all day he walked. His feet had lost feeling, and his hands tingled, and there was no sweat for him to breathe; but the mug was full. He licked dew the next night also, and spilled never a drop of the water. He passed the salt stream, which told him he could not go back, but N was steady and William in fine twig. The sun rose behind him into a new day.
“Bear a bob!” he cried. And Niggy Bower and John Stayley, and Joshua and Charlie, Sam, Isaac and Elijah began to sing with William.
“‘Who would true valour see
Let him come hither!
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather!’”
William turned, and walked backwards, but holding the compass straight, and the mug steady. They were all marching after, led by Tiddy Turnock and Squarker Kennerley, in uniform and holding their staffs and singing.
“‘There’s no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim!’”
The church band was at the rear: Bongy Blackshaw played the serpent; Mazzer Massey the violin; Juggy Potts the clarinet. And, out on a rock in the sea, Cobby Lawton sat with his bass viol.
“‘Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories,
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is!’”
William faced the front, beating time with the compass hand.
“‘No lion can him fright;
He’ll with a giant fight,
But he will have the right
To be a pilgrim!’
“Eh!” said William. “Where’s wenches? Where’s Het?”
Tiddy and Squarker smiled.
This here’s lads’ stuff, youth.
‘Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
Can daunt his spirit!
He knows he at the end
Shall life inherit!
Then, fancies, flee away;
He’ll not fear what men say;
He’ll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim!’
By, but it’s dusty work, this ranting! Give us a sup!
And they crowded round him, Cobby wading from his rock, and took the mug, and all drank their fill.
“Nay! You munner!” shouted William.
Cobby winked at him, and sang:
‘Owd Cob and Young Cob
And Young Cob’s son;
Young Cob’s Owd Cob
When Owd Cob’s done!’
He drank.
“You munner!”
Cobby gave the mug back to William, and the band turned and marched away, following Tiddy and Squarker, playing and singing.
‘Owd Cob and Young Cob
And Young Cob’s son!
Young Cob’s Owd Cob
When Owd Cob’s done!’
“You munner.”
The beach was empty. The mug was dry.
But there was a bead. One bead of water on the tin.
William tipped the mug, and the bead slid to the bottom. He carried it as gently as if the mug were full. The compass and the bead. They were everything through that day. In the bead he sometimes found a rainbow, small, but a rainbow the same as at the mere, as in the swaddledidaff that wore his pocket thin.
It caught the first of the evening. And William did not see the rock, and stumbled, one shoe splitting as he fell, and he lay, watching the bead trickle out onto the rock. It rolled to the stem of a blue flower that grew in a crack, a flower that he had known somewhere, and soaked down to the root.
William heard a humming, and smelt the sweet sharp air of the church and the wind off the land. A bee, small as a fly, hovered on the petal, and lifted nectar from the flower’s heart.
“Fair do’s,” said William. “Ay. Fair do’s, and all.”