The voodoo dolls are indeed leaving. The whole swarm of them, some in tattered little dresses or smocks, others with nothing on at all, move in a wave across the attic floor. They’re going in the same direction taken by the human children. Several of the waxy figures are now hunched: those who hit the floor with force and dislocated themselves. They look even more sinister than they did when they were straight-backed. Many needles are bent. The board-comber feels he has come off best in the attack, but he knows if he ever runs into the voodoo dolls again it will be his last encounter. He adjusts his mask with its jolly puffed cheeks and bulbous nose.
‘We must warn the visitors.’
Why? They should look out for themselves.
‘You know they can’t. They’ve got no idea how to survive up here.’
They’ve survived so far.
‘By luck only.’
Well, they tricked me with that list thing – they told me it was a map. I don’t owe them anything. I don’t want any more to do with them.
‘Then why leave the traction engine for the boy to find? Why send me out with messages for the older boy? You still think they might lead you to some carvings, don’t you? Newcomers often discover old hoards, don’t they? Why? Because they’re not looking as hard as you old timers do. They stumble across ’em without realising it. You want them on your side if they come across a trove, don’t you? A box full of stuff you’ve never noticed before – maybe with a carving among the junk?’
The board-comber acknowledges this fact. But climbing down from his safe perch is not an easy thing to do. As he attempts it he hears a sniggering from above. Alarmed, he looks up to see a pair of bright blue eyes with long eyelashes. One of the eyes winks at him. It belongs to a pink-faced china doll moving like a monkey through the canopy, her chubby little arms swinging her from spar to spar. Blonde-haired, baby-faced china dolls in rose-and-violet dresses with frilly lace hems are almost as vicious as voodoo dolls. Some of them are wearing mob caps with colourful ribbons. Others are bare-headed, with painted curls. All wear terrible smiles.
The bat says, ‘This just isn’t your day.’
The board-comber gives a yell and leaps through space to the floor. Fortunately he lands square on his feet. Above him the china doll calls to her clan and a whole nurseryful of even-toothed dolls with chubby-cheeked smiles come chattering through the canopy of rafters in their pretty dresses, white socks and button-strapped shoes. These are roof dwellers and never come down to the attic floor, so the board-comber knows he is safe.
You bugger off, he says, shaking his fist at them.
‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ says the bat.
I’m going as fast as I can. Is that my boot? Oh no, that broken voodoo doll’s head is hanging from it – it’s buried its teeth in the tongue. How am I going to get that off, without losing a finger? I’ll have to prise the mouth open with a knife or something.
‘Leave it there. A ghastly head decoration. You’ll start a new fashion among board-combers.’
You really think so?
‘No.’
‘It’s all green and tangled,’ said Alex. ‘Lots of vines and ferns. Oh, look at that tall tree! Soaring like a cathedral spire. Over there’s a pool with reddish water in – iron oxide in the soil does that. I learned that in science. Oh, and here’s a cave, all mossy and covered in plants and stuff …’
‘Don’t go in!’ ordered Chloe. ‘You don’t know what’s in there.’
The pair were on a bare-boards plain. There was an Attican village not far away, similar to those they had already encountered. This one had sewing-machine cars and wardrobes, so they were probably kin to the first village they had stayed at. The people were much the same: short in stature, lumpy, with plaster dust on their heads and shoulders. They seemed a busy lot, collecting clothes which they kept in a warehouse made of book-bricks. That is, they used books like bricks to build it. It was quite a sight and full of old clothes, folded neatly, kept in rows. There were also shoes in there, those too in neat rows. These villagers were obviously traders.