13. The Golden Boys

Bobby came out of the doorway, his face soaking red. He had been crying.

By their house was a crowd.

A dozen people looked over the mud. They talked in hushed voices.

'That's the work of a demon…'

'God… God almighty…'

Sylvia staggered to her brother. She hung her head, mortified at walking up like this. After all, in her nightclothes, emerging from the woods, she would need miracles convincing him nothing was wrong. In the afternoon sun, she looked disturbed at best: wandering up, barefoot, her dark hair tangled and flopping loose over her eyes. But no, Bobby ran into her arms, throwing his hands around her back.

'Someone's killed our cow,' he was saying. 'Someone's killed Jill.'

He held her tight, burying his head in her arms, sobbing.

She held her hands up, away from him. What on earth could she say? Her fingers felt too pointed and too sharp. She opened her mouth to speak and wondered if she still had the long hanging teeth.

'Please, don't cry. It was only a cow.'

'She's all blood and guts,' Bobby said. 'They ripped her stomach open, ate up her insides —'

At the shack people marvelled over what was lying on the ground.

The smell rose.

Sylvia held Bobby closer, pushing her fingers into his shirt.

The cow caused enough of a stink to bring several townspeople out with shovels and the body was gone by the time night fell.

Sylvia went inside, not wanting to feel any moonlight, with last night's memories returning — her skin itched like hairs were about to form, her hands pale, her voice hoarse. She collapsed on the straw, terrified. Bobby came over and sat with her. What was there to talk about? She didn't know where Jill had been taken, only that the others had picked up her body and carried the cow away to who-knows-were. What did you do with a dead cow? She had splashed water over the bloodstains on the ground, making a lot of mess but at least getting rid of the flies.

'There goes the family income,' Bobby said about their dead cow.

She was terse. 'Don't worry, I'll sort it out.'

'Oh Lord, what are we going to do?' He breathed a deathly sigh then buried his head in his knees.

Sylvia rested her hands on her chin, then brushed her hair aside. She fiddled with it. During the afternoon she had cleaned herself up, combed her hair, and gotten some new clothes from Azra. He had given her some more boots. She swore he had hundreds of spare pairs. She sat back and stopped herself from smiling. Azra was an odd thing to think about given yesterday and today's harrowing events.

'Oh please, don't worry. It's not all misery, not all of it.' She hung an arm around Bobby's shoulder, pressing him close. 'I think I'm going to do what you told me to do a few weeks ago and start up a farm. The first Wheeler Family Farm. We're going to grow pumpkins, lots of pumpkins, pumpkins bigger than Lord Goddard's dome carriage. I'm going to pull those pumpkins out of the ground and sell them for money and then we'll be paying Lord Goddard in full this time next month.'

'The pumpkin's an autumn vegetable,' Bobby said; 'we need money in the summer.'

Sylvia scratched her chin.

'Okay then,' she said. 'We'll grow mushrooms instead.'

28 DAYS LEFT

There she was, surrounded by freshly planted mushrooms.

Her hands stung from a day's work. She kept the wolves out of mind; the cow, the moon, the carriages, it all went away while she worked. Her sweat-soaked clothes smelt disgusting; not as bad as the manure Bobby had heaped onto the mud but still, not perfect.

In the tavern, beer was running cold and bitter. In the fields, people were lying back and enjoying the summer weather. Out here in the sun, she was beginning to understand how Kipling's kicked cats felt. But she smiled every time the heat hit her face. Good, warm heat meant good, ripe mushrooms. Sylvia propped her body on the shovel, gasping, looking over today's masterpiece. Down beneath the soil she had sown the seeds of riches.

27 DAYS LEFT

Just around dawn, Kidston woke up.

A July heat steamed up everything. Horses shimmied past with grunts and whinnies. Out windows, people emptied latrine buckets.

Doctor Malloy's house was the closest one to the castle. Through the doorway, he received a view up the hill whenever the drawbridge gates were opened. She doubted he knew this. Malloy kept his door shut. She gave it a few knocks.

He called from inside. 'Coming! Coming! I'll be out in a moment!'

Doctor Malloy only had to open his door. Intense spices wafted out from the boiling house.

He swept up before her in his long brown leather coat and black hat.

'Sylvia.'

'Greetings,' she said.

'What brings you before me today? Not the plague I hope. It certainly is plague weather today. Did you know, some would say the entire season is plague weather? To think, they believe the heat spreads around the evil spirits. My ever, what a curious idea. I personally believe Jupiter's in retrograde — anyway, I'm rattling on. Would you like to come inside?'

She hesitated. He was a strange one.

'Oh, come on in,' he gestured with his arm, laughing; 'I don't bite but my leeches do.'

Everyone knew about the blood-letting.

Taking her chances, Sylvia walked through the doorway into the massive house. Malloy had three floors. The first was a welcome room with a lounge, dining table, and a medicine shelf. On that shelf was all kinds of gunk. Looking up, she noticed there was a jar filled with odd-smelling green weeds. She leaned forward, getting its strong, itching smell. On the jar's parchment label, he had jotted Sir Cal. Elsewhere, he had tattered posters pinned over the walls, showing men weeping, despairing and, underneath, he had scrawled Black Bile in ludicrous swishing handwriting.

In the lounge, Doctor Malloy had two huge chairs with black arms and legs and emerald seats. A big steel lantern sat on a prop stool, its light red and all-revealing. In the corner, a small fireplace hissed and crackled. A much-suffering cooking pot hovered over the fire, covered in scratches. Even with the door open, and daylight outside, his house was lit up hot and intense like it was already nightfall.

He threw an arm towards his chairs.

'Dear, why don't we sit down?'

She limped over, holding her knees, uncomfortable with the gigantic lantern inches away. Doctor Malloy sat opposite, pushing his spindle legs out. Settling down, twisting about, he sighed relief. The lantern crackled with noise.

'So, dear child, what is it that troubles you?'

Over her forearm, the wolf-bites stung. They had stung all night. She had clawed at the bedsheets, having berserk nightmares, her eyes opening whenever the wolf-bites stung. Come full moon this month, they would do more than sting.

She wriggled around her chair. 'Ah, I've got these bites on my arm. They've been causing me a great deal of misery lately What do I do?'

He paused from the jars, glancing over.

'I'm sorry to hear that. Well, if you let me take a look at those bites, I can give you some nice, soothing powder. How does that sound? Lovely I think. I'll give you some of my leeches as well. Am not I good to you?'

Sylvia couldn't smile — her head pounded.

The return of the headache.

Malloy poured a few jars into the pot, creating a plume of smoke. A powerful, dark smell. He carried the pot over to the fire and attached it to the dangling chain above. When flames hit its bottom, guzzling sounds came out. Sylvia wasn't anticipating this drink.

'Now let me take a look at those bites.'

He strode over and rubbed his fingers. She peeled back her sleeve.

There they were, the scorching white scars.

Doctor Malloy's eyes flashed, going all large. His stare fixed heavy on the wound not with intent, but confusion. He rubbed his scalp. She had this idea he didn't know what he was doing. His fingers flexed.

The door crashed open.

A man heaved through and collapsed on the floor.

Malloy broke away, rushing over.

'what's going on here?'

Sir Peaks' face was wrought, soaked through with grime, and drooping in frustration. From the looks of it, he had wandered into a brawl and come off with just a gash above his eyebrow. Peaks jumped up and gave Malloy a reassuring nod. He adjusted his belt then breathed deep.

'I'm alright Doctor,' he said. I thought I'd let you know, there's just been a bit of a scrap down by the tavern.'

'Goodness. Not local types I hope.'

'Oh no, visiting boys. They're going around, pulling people off their horses and saying, "it was just a jest, sir". Funny business. Well, they thought it was. Can't have that. I tried to give them a bit of a seeing to, but they saw to me roughly.'

Malloy chewed the gloved tip of his small finger.

'Oh my, they sound like real outlaws. Lord Goddard better prepare the gallows for a good hanging.'

'Oh no, I've sent for Kipling. He'll lick them right out of Kidston for a few years at least.'

'Yes, that'll be nice,' Malloy agreed. 'We can't have all that excitement.'

He looked over Peaks' bruises, holding his hands out, his mouth making loud crunches. This, he knew how to handle.

Her wolf bites weren't getting better.

Sylvia got up from the chair and went for the door. Malloy paid her a glance.

'Oh Sylvia, leaving so soon?'

'I'm afraid so.'

And there was apparently nothing else to be said. Malloy busied himself with the latest patient, toiling over Peaks. Sylvia was left to duck out the front door, happy with the free trip to the doctor's; he hadn't even gotten the chance to poison her. That said, it had been little more than a consultation. The naked scars tensed under the sunlight. She cast a look back at the Malloy's house, tempted to fly back in.

Over the rooftops came shouting. New, unknown voices.

On the road was the chorus of a dozen doors slamming. Nobody wanted to go outside on this fine summer day.

Down the street, awaited the excitement.

Three men stood, talking. Each had heavy locks of uncombed yellow hair tumbling over their face, eyes and bare shoulders. The men had handsome blue eyes that could crack mirrors but they wore shredded, ill-fitting brown shirts and shorts. They were heavy lads, shouting with rough gravel-filled drawls. They had tree-trunk arms swinging and gesturing about with flat dirty palms.

They talked alone, on a corner underneath the church gargoyles. On the mud path were violent messes where unlucky folks had been pulled off their horses. The riders had crawled off. Handprints trailed out and around, towards the street corners. Their horses had mostly scattered. A single brown horse remained to laze by the roadside, lapping at scraps thrown from the windows.

One of the boys pointed at Sylvia. 'Look men, do you see that boy over there?'

The two others turned around.

"That's a girlie-looking boy.'

'Girlie-boy!

Sylvia's headache got worse.

Where was the nearest crossbow again? An overexcited Kipling was bound to bring one. Before then, Sylvia hung some distance away against the wall, content to watch.

Another rider pulled past, his horse crying out.

Kipling had arrived, full-speed, chain-armoured, yet with no crossbow. He jerked his head back.

'Wheeler girl, watch where you're standing! One of these days you'll be the death of —'

Distracted, Kipling hadn't given thought to the street ahead. His much-punished horse decided to rebel and slowed into a mere trot. Hence one boy reached out and grabbed Kipling's shoulder. Kipling's face became white in confusion; he struggled with his arms flying and legs kicking out.

A scream; a tug; an empty saddle.

The knight made muffled sounds floundering against the mud. The boys fell about, whooping, enjoying themselves. Kipling sat up, his face was red, devastated. His horse soared into the trees.

'Look here,' one of them said. 'We've claimed a knight.'

'You scum,' he said. 'What do you call yourselves?'

'Why we're the Golden Boys,' they all said together. 'A walking, talking, singing, dancing theatre troupe.'

'Oh my god,' Kipling said.

Sylvia placed her hand against someone's thatch shack, though gently, careful not to gain more summer-work. She leaned on the doorway. Who needed Wally for fun?

The boys crowded around Kipling, clapping.

'Let's play a game,' one of them said. 'It's called Kick the Knight's head in.'

Then another knight ran in from the end of the street. He unsheathed his sword. Sir Cal's large eyes dropped onto the three boys who appeared confused, their feet inches from Kipling's head.

'You three are about to pack whatever bags you have and leave.' Cal pushed the sword into its scabbard. 'In this town, there's going to be peace and calm. There's not going to be people pushed off their horses. To say it another way: in Kidston, there's not going to be you three.'

'Pfft,' one of them said. 'You knights are a dying breed.'

'True,' Cal acknowledged, to everyone's surprise; 'there's always going to be troublemakers. But if I take out my sword and cut off all your heads right now, then maybe those troublemakers will steer clear of Kidston.'

Kipling was lying about the ground, moaning. The Golden Boys joined him there, sinking down, hands wringing.

'If you kill us all now,' one of them said, 'you won't get to see the big show.'

'Big show?' Cal inquired

'Yes! Big Show! Yes!' the Golden Boy said. 'We perform tricks and sing songs and juggle. You can't kill any of us before the big show. It's a group effort.'

'Will there be a stage? You don't have a stage?'

'We'll bring the stage here in a few days and perform the show at the end of the month. You should look forward to it. We're sure the whole town will be attending.'

'I'll look forward to it then,' Cal said.

With that, he turned and left.

Kipling went after his horse into the trees. Sylvia stood back against the house and looked at the three lads. The boys glanced at each other, worry crossing their faces. Then, the chuckling began. Small giggling noises. It grew louder and louder. All three gold-haired boys filled the street with howls.