Christmas — and wanted to get her own back by disappearing?
He wasn't sure what to think; yet he was grateful for her company, a feeling that surprised him, even though he didn't mention it to her.
They trudged on in silence.
Behind them, a chorus of bells began to strike the hour. Four, five…six o'clock. A medley of bangs and bongs circled the city like a flock of iron birds. Blake raised the hood of his top and squirreled his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders.
This world seemed strangely unreal to him this early in the morning — like a dream. Mist clung to the trees on either side of the river like fragments of sleep, draping their silvery fronds in the murky water. The sun, he noticed, was struggling to burn through the haze, but it was too weak. Only a ring of dim gold leaked through the cloud. Clumps of mud stuck to the soles of his shoes like hoofs.
Just when he was beginning to tire of walking, he spotted a small village on the brow of a hill overlooking a narrow waterway in the distance and heard a rush of water spilling through a weir. It sounded like a waterfall. A sign indicated they were entering Iffley Lock and that cyclists should dismount and dogs be kept of short leads.
The homeless man's dog paid no attention to the sign, but guided them over a stone bridge towards a strip of tarmac with neatly tended flowerbeds planted along its sides. The children looked around them. The water flowing into the lock was deep, black and flecked with leaves and litter. Further along the river, a brightly painted longboat chugged upstream, leaving traces of coal-like smoke in the air.
And then they saw him.
The homeless man was seated at the bottom of a series of stone steps leading right down to the water's edge. Several ducks squabbled for the bits of bread he tossed into the current. He noticed the children, but did not get up.
'What do we do now?' whispered Blake.
'Join him, I guess.'
'I'm not going down there,' he answered, glancing at the man's stooped form. 'It could be dangerous. If he wants to speak to us, he can come up.'
They waited uneasily while the man continued feeding the birds. Blake was relieved to see another figure on the opposite side of the lock: a lock-keeper inspecting the moorings and other pieces of equipment, a coil of rope slung across his shoulder. He noticed them and raised a hand in greeting.
'You needn't worry about her,' he yelled across the water, indicating the dog. 'She doesn't need a leash. She's a real softie, she is.'
As he said this, the homeless man got up rather stiffly and mounted the steps towards the children. Blake felt a splinter of fear run under his skin and pushed Duck behind him, to protect her. The man was wearing the same mangy robe and furry nightcap as the other day. Tall and gaunt, he carried a staff — a bit like a wizard.
The man and boy exchanged silent looks for a long, tremulous moment, and then the stranger led them towards a small clearing behind a cluster of trees close to the lock: a private place where they could talk. Blake checked to make sure that the lock-keeper was keeping an eye on them, just in case they needed help.
The man waved.
Duck, too, seemed to have lost some of her initial bravado. Like Blake, she was probably wondering why they weren't safely tucked up in bed, fast asleep. Anything could happen to them out here and no one would know. Warily, they followed the man through the thin, nearly leafless trees.
There were remnants of a bonfire in the middle of the clearing and Blake sat down on one of the logs that had been placed nearby. The mound of twigs resembled a large, smoldering porcupine and he inched closer, grateful for its warmth. A scratchy, smoky scent prickled his nose.
The dog sidled up to him and place a grizzled muzzle on his knee, looking up at him with doleful eyes.
The boy stroked its head while the man selected some more wood for the fire. A tarpaulin had been spread across a pile of twigs on the far side of the clearing and Blake guessed that the man probably camped here often. There were a few tins and discarded blankets weighed down with bricks on the leaf-littered ground.
The stranger approached and pressed an armful of sticks onto the remains of the fire. The mound hissed and crackled slightly, but did not burst into flame. Shrugging, he sat down opposite the children, but not too close. He apparently didn't want to alarm them. His robe hung open behind him and Blake was fascinated to see dozens of pockets zigzagging across its lining. Scrolls of paper stuck out from some of them like vials, while books bulged squarely in others. He was carrying a portable library inside his coat. Blake longed to know what sort of books they were, but the man said nothing and waited patiently for him to speak first.
The boy wondered where to begin and then, clearing his throat, asked the question that was uppermost in his mind.
'Who are you?'
15
The man considered the question for a moment, but said nothing. Then, to fill the silence, Blake voiced the idea that had occurred to him earlier: 'Are you Johann Gutenberg?'
Duck was the first to react. 'Are you serious?' she cackled. 'Of course he's not Gutenberg! Gutenberg died more than five hundred years ago, you idiot!'
Blake blushed. Curiously, however, the man's mouth softened into a smile. Blake was surprised by the transformation: It was as though someone had take a crumpled sheet of paper and smoothed it out, revealing a hidden greeting inside. The stranger's eyes no longer seemed so distant or far away, but showed renewed signs of life — unlike the fire, which he prodded again with his staff.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Blake listened carefully, but the man's voice seemed to have dried up and only a distant sound of breathing could be heard. He closed his mouth again without uttering a word.
Blake frowned. 'I'm sorry?' He thought he might have misheard, but the stranger merely shook his head and pressed a fingertip to his lips. His eyes, however, were smiling.
Blake turned to his sister. 'Is he hungry, do you think?'
'Don't be silly,' she said. 'He probably hasn't spoken to anyone in ages. Perhaps he's lost his voice.'
Blake pondered this for a moment. Could someone actually forget how to speak? That must be horrible. He chewed on his lip. The man obviously expected him to know where to begin, how to lead the discussion, but too many questions were bombarding his mind and he didn't know which one to ask first — let alone how to express any of them.
'Thanks for the dragon,' he said at last.
The man doffed his hat and scratched at the thatch of scraggly hair beneath.
'What dragon?' said Duck.
He'd forgotten she didn't know. 'A dragon he dropped off at the house yesterday morning,' answered Blake.
'What?' she blurted out. 'That's preposterous! What do you mean by a dragon? There are no such things as dragons! How could he drop off a—'
'I mean an origami dragon he made with special paper,' said Blake. 'Like the paper in the book I found.'
'Why didn't you tell me?' cried Duck, offended. 'I could have helped you!'
'I didn't need your help. Besides, I figured out what it meant on my own.'
'Oh yeah? So, what does the dragon mean, Einstein?'
'It means we're — I mean,
The man nodded, but neither Blake nor Duck noticed. They were glaring at each other and had started to argue.
'And what exactly are you going to ask?'
'I don't know,' he responded lamely. 'Something will occur to me as soon as you stop interrupting.'
'Yeah, right. You wouldn't know what to say if he wrote down the question for you. Nice going, idiot.'
'Look, you didn' t find the blank book and you didn't receive the paper dragon, so mind your own business. This
