The Changes Trilogy by Peter Dickinson Page B

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.
    â€œNow,” 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.”
    â€œIt hurts frightful when I drop it,” groaned the boy.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œHold tight!” she cried, and flung up her hand from the ladder to catch the slipping arm.
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œI’ve got his shoulders,” said Gopal. “We’ve found something to carry him on outside. Can you manage?”
    Nicky staggered out into the sunlight and saw Ajeet spreading hay onto a hurdle.
    â€œThis end,” said Gopal. “Turn your back to it. Now get down as low as you can and I’ll lift him off.”
    Nicky crouched, then sat; she twisted to ease the wounded leg onto the hay, and at last stood, shuddering with the long effort and feeling such sudden lightness that a breeze could have blown her away.
    â€œWell done, Nicky,” said Gopal. “Lift his leg, Ajeet, while I put more hay under it. If we get it higher than the body it might bleed a bit less. And then we’ll need to lash it into place, so that it doesn’t flop about while we are carrying him. A rope or a strap.”
    â€œNo,” said Ajeet, “something softer. What about your puggri?”
    â€œIt’s such a bind to do up again,” said Gopal, but he began to unwind the long folds of his turban. His black hair fell over his shoulders, like a girl’s, but he twisted it up with a few practiced flicks and pinned it into place with the square wooden comb. The cloth was long enough to go three times around the hurdle, lashing the leg comfortably firm. The child muttered and stirred, but did not wake. His face looked a nasty yellowy gray beneath the tear-streaked dirt.
    â€œWhere shall we take him?” said Nicky.
    â€œUp to the farm,” said Gopal.
    â€œHe won’t like that,” said Nicky. “Nor will the villagers. They’ll think we’ve stolen his soul away, or something.”
    â€œNever mind,” said Gopal. “First, we don’t know which house he belongs at, or even which village. Second, he must have proper medical attention, and he won’t get that in the village.”
    â€œAll right,” said Nicky.
    Gopal took the front of the hurdle, Nicky and Ajeet the two back corners. The first stretch along the deep lane was