The Old Silent

6

Carefully, Abby dragged at the bright yellow waterproof; it was blue on the inside, darker.

In the middle of getting out of one sleeve as she watched the moor and the hillside, she saw them.

A line of sheep straight across the edge of the bluff, like a platoon. Like that Zulu movie with the native tribe suddenly appearing. Her mouth had dropped open then. She was breathless, now.

She forgot everything-the cold, the danger-for she had never seen such a sight in her life.

The veiled moon rode above a tall black pillar of pine and looked like the streetlamp in the Empire of Light.

7

Ellen swung off the BMW, grabbed up the white containers from a basket she'd attached to it, and held them aloft. 'You like Chinese? Sweet-and-sour pork? Lo Mein noodles-?'

'No. Abby's missing.'

Ellen dropped her arms. 'Missing? What d'ya mean missing?' Her voice was ferocious. Panther-black, she approached him.

'Missing! Disappeared! Gone.'

She stopped then and looked totally confused.

'I called Superintendent Jury-'

'You expected him to find Abby in London? You think she walked to London?'

'Shut up. I rang up the Keighley police.'

'Police. Wonderful. It takes them an hour just to get their bikes going.' Enraged, she flung out her arm.

'This isn't New York,' he yelled as the white cardboard box sailed away, noodles cascading, falling and lying in slimy drips on the stones. She took furious aim and the pork followed, this container landing inside the mesh wire of the hen yard. He heard rustles, squawks and in a moment saw flapping wings. He turned and walked toward his Bentley, cold as hoarfrost except for the anger. Let her have her tantrum, dammit.

'Where're you going?' she yelled at his back.

As he slid onto the seat, he yelled back: 'To look for her, of course.' He slammed the door.

She'd followed him, standing now hands on hips gazing from boot to wing of the Bentley, shaking her head. 'Terrific.'

'Go eat Chinese with the chickens.' Melrose turned the key. The engine quietly turned over and clicked into a purr.

'Beautiful. Brilliant. Across the moors in a Bentley!' Ellen stretched out her arms and flung the words into the night, 'It's so you!'

'Go away.' He was backing out slowly and taking her with him because she'd clamped her hands on the window-sill. 'Away, away! You're an encumbrance!' But he jammed down on the brake.

'Listen, Wonderearl,' she said, her voice dangerously low, 'you will get about forty feet in this slab. And if the police ever doget here, who's to welcome them while you're crashing around in your Batman car?'

'Malcolm. Get your hands off.' Melrose tried to push them. They were steel clamps. He nodded up toward the dully lit window. Malcolm waved furiously.

She squinched her eyes nearly shut, looking up. 'You've got to be kidding!'

'And you.' Since she'd released her grip, he backed up, spitting gravel.

Ellen hurled herself at the car and he hit the brake again. She yanked the door open, grabbed his arm, and jostled Melrose away from the wheel.

'Get your damned hands offme!'

She didn't.

He tripped on a stone, nearly went down, thinking if he'd fallen she'd simply have grabbed his collar and dragged him. Now she was shoving him onto the long, leather seat of the BMW. As she hopped on in front, he was pushed onto the metal fender. The noise of the bike's engine was shattering. As the bike shot away from the Hall, Melrose had to grab for her waist. He glanced back and saw Malcolm waving some idiot flag and could have sworn the chickens had rushed up in a long line and were beating their wings in applause.

8

The bike had slogged and sloshed down a green lane, come out on the Oakworth Road, then found an opening in a rotten wooden fence and they were now bucking along across the frozen field.

Melrose raised his voice, which was carried away by the wind anyway, and asked, 'Do you know where you're going?'

'No.' The word wailed in the onrushing wind.

'Keighley Moor.' He took one arm from her waist and pointed west: 'That way.'

Ellen bumped across a stream and whipped the bike toward the west.

The bitter wind whipped his jacket back and he knew he would be in hospital straightaway. Still, he had to admit the race through the cold moist air, his arms hugging Ellen's waist, was exhilarating.

At least until he saw the low stone wall rushing toward them.

9

He saw the stone wall, knew the Smokes wouldn't want to move when they got there, knew he could fly over it, but they could only go through the rubble. The leader would try to hold and then to bolt.

A rush of Smokes just in front was already dithering and moving off to the left. He circled out to the left, corkscrewing to confuse them, and he got them back on course. Smokes could run. And Smokes were smart.

Something told him he shouldn't be tasting this thick salty stuff but if the Cloud wouldn't move, the others near would stop, too. Charge the whole lot. Waste of time. He rounded on the big, stubborn one, caught its heel, clamped down. The Cloud made its dumb angry noise, but it moved back toward the mob and the others followed. He made a quick zigzag line in front of his part of the mob, showing them Teeth. Teeth, Teeth, Teeth, Teeth. Then back to his position, running slightly behind them. He looked over at the Starer dashing toward a Cloud way on the other side. The Starer only had Eyes. Eyes.

He was right. The Smokes were nearly at the wall. Black-wet, the wall ran like a river across the moor. He couldn't see the place where he knew she was, since he'd left the hilltop, but he knew she was only a clear field away on the other side of this wall. The place where she'd gone with the one in big boots and a gun who seemed to be trying to shoot the sky down. Never got it, though.

He was right; he would have to use a powerful eye on the old one, the leader. It was the leader who'd get the other Smokes through and over.

Lowering his tail, he crouched as if he had a saddle on his back, his belly nearly touching the ground.

He held the old Smoke's eye for a long time. He could have stayed here the night, but he had to get them moving. The Smoke stared back, then broke the look and started moving a little to the right, then a little to the left, but he couldn't break the look.

He moved in on it.

Deadheel was running a quarter-moon course at the rear of the mob. Good.