The Cannibals by Iain Lawrence Page B

cries of the animals, and that dreadful drumming went on.
    Even Gaskin Boggis looked scared. There was a tremble in his voice when he turned to Mr. Mullock and asked, “Will you tell us a story?”
    “No,” answered Mr. Mullock.
    Then Early Discall began to hum his plowing song. He held his arms around his knees and, rocking on the stone, hummed it loud and clear. What a relief it was to hear him. The song was lovely, like a hymn, and it echoed from the rocks and trees and drowned the sounds of drums. He reached the point where a man would answer, if he were really singing in the fields. And suddenly, into his song, came the deeper voice of Mr. Mullock.
    He put words to the tune, and seemed to do it without thinking, for he sat as sullen as the rest of us.
    Suddenly Early stopped. “Why, you're a plowman,” he said.
    “What?” said Mr. Mullock. “What are you blathering about now, you simpleton?”
    But even Weedle understood. “You was singing his song,” said he. “You're from the west country, ain't you? You're from the same place as 'im, Mr. Mullock.”
    “Don't talk such rot,” said Mr. Mullock. “I'm a lord, haren't I? Hah! Do you see lords plowing fields, you miserable—”
    “Here, I
knew
a Mullock,” said Early Discall. “Why, it was thick with Mullocks where I was.”
    “Well, I don't know them,” said Mr. Mullock. “And furthermore, I don't care to listen to your prattle.”
    “There was a Mullock three fields over from us,” said Early.
    Mr. Mullock roared at him. “Are you deaf? Lord almighty, I wish that
I
was.”
    “Yes, I remember now.” Early was scratching his head. “There was a story of a Mullock what went away to London. He—”
    “Shut up, you pile of muck.” Mr. Mullock leapt to his feet. Three paces he took toward the boy, then three paces back. He whirled around. “Now remember
this
!” he cried. “I've seen things that would curl your teeth, my lad. Hah! I've seen more blood spilt than there's water in the sea. And two things I've learned: no man escapes 'is fate. And dead ones tell no tales.”
    It was the second time that he'd talked about the silence of dead men. I understood no more about him now than I had the first time. I stared up, as astonished as everyone else, while he stood towering there in his silly turtle helmet, with his great black beard glistening in the moonlight. He pointed at Early.
    “You get up on that ledge and don't move until morning. Do you hear me?” he said. “Now!”
    Early did as he was told. We watched him slink into the darkness, and heard him scramble up the cliff. A scurry of pebbles came skittering down.
    “Now who wanted a story?” said Mr. Mullock. “Well, I'll tell you one, boys. I'll tell you of a fellow who went from rags to riches, and back to rags again. I'll tell you 'ow the world wore 'im down like grain in a grindstone. Is that the one you'd like to 'ear? Is it, then?”
    Gaskin blinked back at him. “I'd rather hear about the Mullock what went to London.”
    “Hah!” Mr. Mullock buried his fist in his beard. He tugged hard, as though trying to wrench the hair from his chin. Then his arm fell to his side and he said, “Oh, what's the use? Am I to be a wet nurse to the lot of you?”
    He sat again, in his place. He took his axe from his belt and curled up on his side. The drumming went on in the distance, and the cannibals' fires glowed through the trees like tiny, watchful eyes. Soon a chink and grind of metal started up and I saw that Mr. Mullock was honing his axe on the stone.
    “If you've any sense you'll sleep,” he said. “It's in the twittering hour that the junglies come.”
    His blade scraped back and forth. His breaths were heavy sighs. I nodded off, snapped awake, then wouldn't allow myself to sleep again. All through the night, Mr. Mullock ground his axe. At the first sign of dawn he stopped, flicked his thumb across the blade, then stood. His feet straddled Benjamin Penny, who lay more twisted than