Wicked Day Read Free Page B

in tune. And oddly enough his parents had never encouraged him to mix with them, even as a child. Now, at ten years old, well grown and full of a wiry strength, he had helped his father with the man's jobs already for several years. It was a long time since, on his rare days off, he had troubled with children's ploys. Not that, for such as he, birds'-nesting was a child's game; still,, each spring, he made his way down these very cliffs to collect the freshly laid eggs for food. And later he and his father, armed with nets, would come to catch the young ones for Sula to skin and dry against the winter's hardships.
    So he knew the ways down the cliff well enough. He also knew how dangerous they were, and the thought of being burdened with someone clumsy enough to strand himself, and probably by now thoroughly scared, was not pleasant.
    The boy had seen him. His face was upturned, and he waved and called again.
    Mordred made a face, then cupped his hands to his mouth. "What is it? Can't you get back?"
    A vivid pantomime from below. It seemed unlikely that the climber could hear what was said, but the question was obvious, and so, too, was his answer. He had hurt his leg, otherwise — and somehow his gestures conveyed this clearly — he would not have dreamed of calling for help.
    This bravado had little or no effect on the boy at the head of the cliff. With a shrug that indicated more boredom than anything else, the fisherman's son began the climb down.
    It was difficult, and in two or three places dangerous, so Mordred went slowly, taking his time.
    At length he landed on the ledge beside the climber.
    The boys studied one another. The fisherman's son saw a boy of much his own age, with a shock of bright red-gold hair and hazel-green eyes. His complexion was clear and ruddy, his teeth good. And though his clothes were torn and stained with the dirt of the cliff, they were well made of good cloth, and brightly dyed in what looked like expensive colours. On one wrist he wore a copper bracelet no brighter than his hair. He sat with one leg over the other, gripping the hurt ankle tightly in both hands. He was obviously in pain, but when Mordred, with the working man's contempt for his idle betters, looked for signs of tears, he saw none.
    "You've hurt your ankle?"

    "Twisted it. I slipped."
    "Is it broken?"
    "I don't think so, just sprained. It hurts if I try to stand on it. I must say I'm glad to see you! I seem to have been here for ages. I didn't think anyone would be near enough to hear me, specially through all that noise."
    "I didn't hear you. I saw the gulls."
    "Well, thank the gods for that. You're a pretty good climber, aren't you?"
    "I know these cliffs. I live near here. All right, we'll have to try it. Get up and let's see how you manage.
    Can't you put that foot down at all?"
    The red-haired boy hesitated, looking faintly surprised, as if the other's tone was strange to him. But all he said was: "I can try. I did try before, and it made me feel sick. I don't think — some of those places were pretty bad, weren't they? Hadn't you better go and get help? Tell them to bring a rope."
    "There's no one within miles." Mordred spoke impatiently. "My father's away with the boat. There's only Mother, and she'd be no use. I can get a rope, though. I've got one up at the peats. We'll manage all right with that."
    "Fine." There was some attempt at a gay smile. "I'll wait for you, don't fret! But don't be too long, will you? They'll be worried at home."
    At Brude's cottage, thought Mordred, his absence would never have been noticed. Boys such as he would have to break a leg and be away for a working day before anyone would start to trouble. No, that was not quite fair. Brude and Sula sometimes were as anxious over him as fowls with a single chicken.
    He had never seen why; he had ailed nothing in all his life.
    As he turned to go he caught sight of a small lidded basket on the ledge beside the other boy. "I'll take that basket up