Hexwood. Diana Wynne Jones

the bushes on to the mud path and stood up to trot towards the houses. And, on top of it all, she had torn her anorak, and her skirt, and she seemed to have quite a large cut in her knee.

      “Hey, wait a minute.” she said, halting in the passage between the houses. She had cut that knee running away from Mordion. She looked from the dried blood flaking off her shin to the small bunch of violets in her hand. “Did I go into the wood twice then?”

      I don’t think so, said the Boy. I lost you.

      You went out of touch when you went into that wood, explained the Prisoner.

      Yes, hut did I go in and come out and go in again? Ann asked them.

      No, they said, all four of her imaginary people, and the King added, You only went in once this morning.

      “Hm.” Ann almost doubted them as she limped slowly up the passage and into Wood Street. But the big grey car was still in the parking bay. There were other cars around it now, but when Ann bent down she could still see just a few hailstones, fused into a melting lump behind the near front wheel where the sun had not been able to reach.

      That much is real, she thought, crossing the street slantwise towards Stavely Greengrocer.

      In front of the shop she stopped and looked at boxes of lettuces and bananas and flowers out on the pavement. One of the boxes was packed full of little posies of violets, just like the one in her hand. Very near to tears, Ann poked her own bunch in amongst them before she went inside for lunch.

      

      Mordion was working hard, trying to build a shelter and keep a watch on Hume at the same time. Hume would keep scrambling down the steep rocks to the river. He seemed fascinated by the fish traps Mordion had made in the pool under the waterfall. Mordion was not sure how it had come about that he was in charge of such a small child, but he knew Hume was a great deal too young to be trusted not to fall into the river and drown. Every few minutes, Mordion was forced to go bounding down after Hume. Once, he was only just in time to catch Hume by one chubby arm as Hume cartwheeled slowly off a slippery stone at the edge of the deep pool.

      “Play with the pretty stones I found you,” Mordion said.

      “I did,” said Hume. “They went in the water.”

      Mordion towed Hume up the rocks to the cave beneath the pine tree. This was where he was trying to build the shelter. It felt like the hundredth time he had towed Hume up here. “Stay up here, where it’s safe,” he said. “Here. Here’s some pieces of wood. Make a house.”

      ‘I’ll make a boat,” Hume offered.

      And fall in the river for certain! Mordion thought. He tried cunning. “Why not make a cart? You can make roads for it in the earth here and – and – I’ll carve you a wooden horse for it when I’ve built this shelter.”

      Hume considered this. “All right,” he said at last, doing Mordion a great favour.

      For a time then there was peace, if you did not count the thumping as Hume endeavoured to beat his piece of wood into a cart shape. Mordion went back to building. He had planted a row of uprights in front of the cave, and hammered stakes in among the rocks above the cave. Now he was trying to lash beams between the two to make a roof. It was a good idea, but it did not seem to be working. Bracken and grass did not make good rope.

      While he worked, Mordion wondered at the way he felt so responsible for Hume. A small child was a real nuisance. Centuries of stass had not prepared Mordion for this constant need to dash after Hume and stop him killing himself. He felt worn out. Several times he had almost given up and thought, oh let him drown!

      But that was wrong and bad. Mordion was surprised how strongly he felt that. He could not let a small stray boy come to harm. Oh what does it matter why! he thought, angrily pushing his roof back upright. His poles showed a wilful desire to slant sideways. They did it oftener when Mordion tried to balance spreading fir boughs on top to make a roof. The whole thing would have collapsed by now, but for the long iron nails that, for some reason, kept turning up among his pile of wood. Though he felt this was cheating, Mordion took a nail and hammered it into the ground next to another pole every time his roof slanted. By now, each upright stood in a ring of nails. Suppose he were to lash the poles and nails around with bracken rope—

      “Look,” Hume said happily. “I made my cart.”

      Mordion turned round. Hume was beaming and holding out a lump of wood with two of the nails hammered through it. On both ends of each nail were round slices that Mordion had cut off the ends of his poles when he was getting them the right length. Mordion stared at it ruefully. It was far more like a cart than his building was like a house.

      “Don’t carts look like this?” Hume asked doubtfully.

      “Oh yes. Haven’t you ever seen one?” Mordion said.

      “No,” Hume said. “I made it up. Is it very wrong?”

      In that case, Mordion realised, Hume was a genius. He had just reinvented the wheel. This was certainly a good reason for caring for Hume. “No, it’s a beautiful cart,” Mordion said kindly. Hume beamed so happily at this that Mordion found himself almost as pleased as Hume was. To give such pleasure with so few words! “What made you think of the nails?” he asked.

      “I just asked for something to fasten the rings of wood on with,” Hume explained.

      “Asked?” said Mordion.

      “Yes,” said Hume. “You can ask for things. They fall on the ground in front of you.”

      So Hume had discovered this queer way you could cheat too, Mordion thought. This explained the nails in the woodpile – possibly. And while he thought about this, Hume said, “My cart’s a boat too,” and set off at a trot towards the river again.

      Mordion dived and caught him by the back of his tracksuit just as Hume walked off the edge of the high rocks. “Can’t you be careful?” he said, trying to drag Hume more or less out of the sky. They were both hanging out over the river.

      Hume windmilled his arms so that Mordion all but lost his grip on the tracksuit. “Hallo, Ann!” Hume yelled. “Ann, come and look at my cart! Mordion’s made a house!”

      Down below, Mordion was surprised and pleased to see, Ann was jumping cautiously across the river from rock to rock. When Hume shouted, she balanced on a boulder and looked up. She seemed as surprised as Mordion, but not nearly so pleased. He felt rather hurt Ann shouted, but it was lost in the rushing of the waterfall.

      “Can’t hear you, Ann!” Hume screamed.

      Ann had realised that. She made the last two leaps across this foaming river where there had only been a trickling stream before, and came scrambling up the cliff. “What’s going on?” she panted, rather accusingly.

      “What do you mean?” Mordion set Hume down at a safe distance from the drop-off. He had, Ann saw, grown a small curly camel-coloured beard. It made his face far less like a skull. With the beard and the pleated robe, he reminded her of a monk, or a pilgrim. But Hume—! Hume was so small – only five years old at the most!

      Hume was clamouring for Ann to admire his cart, holding it up and wagging it in her face. Ann took it and looked at it. “It’s a stone-age rollerskate,” she said. “You ought to make two – unless it’s a very small skateboard.”

      “He invented it himself,” Mordion said proudly.

      “And Mordion invented a house!” Hume said, equally proudly.

      Ann looked from the cart to the slanting poles of the house. To her mind, there was not much to choose between the two, but she supposed that Hume and Mordion were both having to learn.