Read Online Island of Bones by Imogen Robertson - Free Book Online Page B

not frightened.’
    The man laughed under his breath then whistled, taking something out of his pocket as he did so. The crow fluttered up to his shoulder and allowed the man to scratch his glossy black neck as he ate from his open palm.
    ‘It spoke,’ Stephen said at last, suspiciously.
    ‘He does that, he does,’ the man replied. ‘When he has a mind to.Move slowly and he may let you scratch him as I am doing.’ He bent forward, bringing the jackdaw within Stephen’s reach. The boy reached up with great care and pushed his fingers in between the feathers. He had thought they would be soft, but they felt like polished wood and strong. The bird took on a slightly dreamy expression and opened its beak a little with a low growling sound.
    ‘What is his name?’
    The man tilted his head. ‘I can’t say as I know in crow language, but I call him Joe and he’s willing to answer to that.’
    ‘Joooe,’ said the jackdaw, bobbing a little. Stephen took his hand away quickly and offered it to the man.
    ‘My name is Stephen Westerman, and I am very pleased to meet you.’
    The man took his hand, giving it a smart downward pull that almost dislocated Stephen’s shoulder and set him stumbling again. ‘Casper Grace, so please you, sir.’ He then sat down on a log that formed a natural bench to the right of the path and took various items from his pockets. The jackdaw remained balanced on his shoulder and for the next few moments boy and bird were united in observing the man as he worked with a knife on a half-whittled piece of wood. Stephen became aware that the forest was full of smaller noises under the calling birds – he could hear leaves brushing together where the wind stirred them like a hand in water; somewhere in the distance, a stream was running; as he moved, the forest floor seemed to shush him. Stephen approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the jackdaw, and sat down carefully at the man’s feet.
    ‘What are you making?’ he said at last.
    Without looking up, Casper reached into his pocket and took something from it which he thrust into Stephen’s hand. The boy found himself looking at a neat little carving of a cross that just fitted into his palm. It splayed out towards its four ends and was smooth to the touch, but detailed with an inner line and circle at its centre. The edge was marked out with little dips as if it were decorated with the shadows of something.
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said at last. Casper looked up and sniffed.
    ‘It is a Luck. The Luck of Gutherscale Hall. You may keep it, though don’t tell Askew. He sells them at his museum in the town and doesn’t like it when I give them away for free. Says I am robbing us both. I made it.’
    Stephen turned it over and ran his fingertips along the worked edges. ‘I wish I were so clever.’
    ‘Ha! I’d not say I was clever, lad. Not with wood. Herbs, flowers, blessings maybe, but not so as I’d like with wood. Seems as I can only do these carvings of the Luck.’ He held up the one he was working on and blew on it. ‘I tried to do a portrait of Joe once in wood, but it never came right, did it, Joe?’ The bird lifted its wings and clacked its beak. ‘Good thing Askew can sell these to the Lakers or I’d have a thousand of them by now.’
    ‘Who are the Lakers, Mr Grace?’
    ‘Call me Casper, youngling. Why, Lakers are people such as yourself who come to see the Lakes hereabout, of course.’
    ‘They are very fine.’
    Casper looked at him with bright eyes. ‘It
is
fine country, ain’t it?’ He shot to his feet and grabbed Stephen’s hand. ‘Come with me.’ He raced up the path again, dragging Stephen behind him as the bird fluttered along between perches beside them. Stephen half-stumbled, half-ran along the path, not sure if he was frightened or delighted. Suddenly the trees fell away behind him and he found himself thrust out onto a rough promontory, where the view of the lake made him gasp.
    Casper knelt at his side,