The 1000 Year Old Boy by Ross Welford

Author:Ross Welford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2019-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

Mam had gone up to her bed, I told Robbie the fire investigator. I had gone out, as I often do, to shoot rabbits.

It is all right. I do not shoot them for fun. I shoot rabbits in order to eat them. I know some people in the twenty-first century are squeamish about things like that, especially those who live in towns: that is why I point it out.

(I have a sling to shoot with. You do not use them nowadays, but slings are a very effective weapon. Mine has a small pouch in the middle of a long leather cord. I made it many years ago and I am quite accurate. I also have Da’s knife, the steel blade darkened with age and worn thin through centuries of sharpening.)

I told none of this to Robbie, however. I just said that I was going for a walk.

“At night?” he asked, but he tried not to sound surprised.

There is a huge field to the north of our woods, which on cool spring nights is full of rabbits. Until quite recently I had never seen anybody there at night. Not until the new estate was built, and then some people walked dogs there. I had stopped going so often. I would not want to hit someone’s dog by accident, or even a person.

I had the big light, on a head strap, that I take with me, but the moon was so high—almost full—that I did not need it to see the way. Instead I turned it on when I got to the field, and swept the beam at ground level. That way, the eyes of the rabbits shine back and you have your target.

I spotted one immediately, and slowly withdrew my sling and put a ball bearing, about half an inch across, in the pouch. I kept the rabbit’s eyes in my sights, not moving my head while I began the “windup”—spinning the pouch round on the long strings. That is when I noticed something different. A different kind of light to the south: very faint, a different color. Orangey, grayish.

The color of fire.

Forgive me, but I do not suppose you have been greatly exposed to seeing things on fire: buildings, towns, boats?

I have.

I knew immediately what it was. Terror mounting, I sprinted back to the woods, batting away branches, skidding on moss, my breathing rapid and shallow. I nearly tripped over Biffa, who came pelting out of the woods. I knew then that something was badly wrong.

“Biffa! Biffa! Kum-a, kum-a!” I cried, but she did not even look back. Terrified, she ran across the field as if pursued by a dog.

Even then, I heard in my head the voice of my old combat teacher, Rafel: “Calm, Alve. Your heart, she needs the air!” and I tried to make my breathing slower and deeper, but it was not easy.

In the dense woods, I could not see the orange glow, nor smell the smoke, until I got much nearer, but soon it was unmistakable.

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