The Homeward Bounders

  Diana Wynne Jones

  The

  Homeward

  Bounders

  Dedication

  To Thomas Tuckett, with thanks for advice about War Gaming

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Credits

  Copyright

  Back Ad

  About the Publisher

  I

  Have you heard of the Flying Dutchman? No? Nor of the Wandering Jew? Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you about them in the right place; and about Helen and Joris, Adam and Konstam, and Vanessa, the sister Adam wanted to sell as a slave. They were all Homeward Bounders like me. And I’ll tell about Them too, who made us that way.

  All in good time. I’ll tell about this machine I’m talking into first. It’s one of Theirs. They have everything. It has a high piece in front that comes to a neat square with a net over it. You talk into that. As soon as you talk, a little black piece at the back starts hopping and jabbering up and down like an excited idiot, and paper starts rolling over a roller from somewhere underneath. The hopping bit jabbers along the paper, printing out exactly the words you say as fast as you can say them. And it puts in commas and full-stops and things of its own accord. It doesn’t seem to worry it what you say. I called it some rude words when I was trying it out, just to see, and it wrote them all down, with exclamation marks after them.

  When it’s written about a foot of talk, it cuts that off and shoots it out into a tray in front, so that you can read it over, or take it away if you want. And it does this without ever stopping jabbering. If you stop talking, it goes on hopping up and down for a while, in an expectant sort of way, waiting for you to go on. If you don’t go on, it slows down and stops, looking sad and disappointed. It put me off at first, doing that. I had to practice with it. I don’t like it to stop. The silence creeps in then. I’m the only one in the Place now. Everyone has gone, even him—the one whose name I don’t know.

  My name is Jamie Hamilton and I was a perfectly ordinary boy once. I am still, in a way. I look about thirteen. But you wouldn’t believe how old I am. I was twelve when this happened to me. A year is an awful long time to a Homeward Bounder.

  I really enjoyed my twelve years of ordinary life. Home to me is a big city, and always will be. We lived in a really big, dirty, slummy city. The back of our house looked out on to a lovely cosy courtyard, where everyone came out and talked in fine weather, and everyone knew everyone else. The front of our house was our grocery shop, and all the neighbors shopped there. We were open every day, including Sunday. My mother was a bit of a sharp woman. She was always having rows in the courtyard, usually about credit. She used to say the neighbors expected to buy things for nothing just because they lived in the court, and she told them so to their faces. But no one could have been kinder than my mother when a neighbor’s daughter was run over by a brewer’s wagon. I often hope they were as kind to her over me.

  My father was big and soft-spoken and kind all the time. He used to let people buy things for nothing. When my mother objected, he used to say, “Now, Margaret, they needed it.” And usually that stopped the argument.

  The arguments my father couldn’t seem to stop were always over me. The main one was because I was in my last year at school. School cost money. My school cost rather more than my father could afford, because it had pretensions to grandeur. It was called Churt House, and it was in a dreary building like a chapel, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. We had all sorts of pretend-posh customs—like calling our teachers Dominies and a School Song—and that was why my mother liked it.

  My mother desperately wanted me to grow up to be something better than a grocer. She was convinced I was clever, and she wanted a doctor in the family. She saw me as a famous surgeon, consulted by Royalty, so she naturally wanted me to stay on at school. My father was dead against it. He said he hadn’t the money. He wanted me at home, to help in the shop. They argued about it all the last year I was at home.

  Me—I don’t know which side I was on. School bored me stiff. All that sitting and learning lists: lists of spelling, lists of tables, lists of History dates, lists of Geography places. I’d rather do anything else, even now, than learn a list. About the only part of school I enjoyed was the feud we had with the really posh school up the road. It was called Queen Elizabeth Academy, and the boys there wore shiny hats and learned music and things. They despised us—rightly—for pretending to be better than we were, and we despised them just as much for the silly hats and the music. We used to have some really good fights on the way home. But the rest of school bored me solid.

  On the other hand, the shop bored me almost as much. I’d always rather leave the shop to my brother, Rob. He was younger than me. He thought it was the greatest treat on earth to count change and put up sugar in blue paper bags. My little sister, Elsie, liked the shop too, only she’d always rather play football with me.

  Football was the thing I really loved. We used to play in the back alley, between our court and the one behind, our court stick the kids from the other one. That usually boiled down to me and Elsie against the two Macready boys. We were the ones who always played. We had to have special rules because the space was so small, and more special rules for washing days, because people’s coppers in the washhouses on either side filled the whole alley with steam. It was like playing in fog. I was forever landing the ball in someone’s washing. That made the other arguments my mother had that my father couldn’t settle. She was always having rows about what I’d done with the ball this time, or with Mrs. Macready because I’d led her boys into bad ways. I never was a saint. If it wasn’t football, it was something else that was a laugh to do. My mother always tried to stick up for me, but it was a lost cause.

  The other thing I used to love was exploring round the city. I used to do it on my way to school, or coming home, so that my mother wouldn’t know. This is where They come in, so don’t get impatient.

  That year I was taking a new bit of the city every week and going round it till I knew it. Then I’d move on. I told you a city is Home to me. Most of it was just like it was round our court, crowded and cheery and grimy. But I used to love the market. Everyone shouting like mad, and oranges to nick off every barrow, and big gas flares over all the stalls. I saw one catch fire one time. Then there was the canal and the railway. They used to go out of their way to crisscross one another, it always seemed to me. Trains were clanking over the water every hundred yards, or else barges were getting dragged under iron bridges—except for one bit, where the canal went over the railway for a change on a line of high arches like stilts, with houses packed underneath the arches. Near that was the smart bit with the good shops. I used to love the smart bit in winter in the dark, when there were lights all wriggling down into the wet road, and posh people in carriages going up and down. Then there were the quiet bits. You’d come upon them suddenly, round a corner—gray, quiet parts that everyone seemed to have forgotten.

  The quiet bit that was the end of me was right near the center. It was round behind the smart bit, almost under the place where the canal went up on its stilts. I came at it through a sort of park first. It was a private park. I wasn’t particular about trespassing. I suppose you’d call th
e place a garden. But I was really ignorant in those days. The only other grass I’d seen was in a park, so I thought of this place as a park when I came over the wall into it.

  It was a triangular green place. Though it was right in the heart of the city, it had more trees—and bushes—in it than I’d ever seen all together in those days. It creased down to a hollow in the middle, where there was grass, smooth mown grass. The moment I landed over the wall, the quiet shut me in. It was peaceful in a way, but it was more like going deaf. I couldn’t hear so much as a whisper from the railway or the roads.

  Funny! I thought, and looked up to make sure the canal was still there. And it was there, striding across the sky in front of me. I was glad, because the place was so strange that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the whole city had vanished.

  Which goes to show you should always trust your instincts. I didn’t know a thing about Them then, or the ways of the worlds, but I had got it right. By instinct.

  What I should have done was climb back over that wall at once. I wish I had. But you know a bit what I was like by now, and I don’t think you would have gone away either. It was so strange, this silence. And there seemed no harm in it. I knew I was scared stiff, really, but I told myself that was just the way you feel when you’re trespassing. So, with my back like a mass of soft little creeping caterpillars, I went down through the trees to the mown grass at the bottom.

  There was a little white statue there. Now, I’m not artistic. I saw it was of a fellow with no clothes on—I always wonder why it’s Art to take your clothes off: they never put in the goose pimples—and this fellow was wrapped in chains. He didn’t look as if he was enjoying himself, and small wonder. But the thing that really interested me was the way the artist had managed to carve the chains out of stone, all linked together in one piece, just as if they were real chains. I moved one to see, and it was just like a real chain, only made of stone. When I lifted it, I found it was fastened to the same place as all the other chains, down at one side, into the ring of what looked like a ship’s anchor, and this anchor was carved half buried in the white stone the statue was standing on.

  That was all I noticed, not being artistic, because by that time I could see a stone building up among the trees at the wide end of the park. I went there, very softly, hiding among the trees and bushes. My back was still creeping, but I’d got used to that by then.

  When I got there, I found it was quite a big building, like a small castle, built out of pinkish gray stone. It was triangular, like the park. The part I was looking at was the pointed end. It had battlements along the top, and some quite big windows in the ground floor. You could see it had been modernized. I slithered round until I could look in one of the big windows. I couldn’t get close, because there was a neat gravel terrace running round it under the windows. So what I did see was sort of smeary and dark, with the reflections of trees over it. I thought that was because I was ten feet away. I know better now.

  I saw a fellow inside who seemed to be wearing a sort of cloak. Anyway, it was long and grayish and flowing, and it had a hood. The hood was not up. It was bunched back round his neck, but even so I couldn’t see much of his face. You never do see Their faces. I thought it was just the reflections in the window then, and I craned forward to see. He was leaning over a sort of slope covered with winking lights and buttons. I knew it was a machine of some sort. I might have been ignorant, but I had climbed up into the signal box on the railway under the canal arch, and I had been shown the printing press in the court up the street, so I knew it must be a kind of machine I didn’t know, but a bit like both and a lot smoother-looking. As I looked, the fellow put out a hand and very firmly and deliberately punched several buttons on the machine. Then he turned and seemed to say something across his bunched hood. Another fellow in the same sort of cloak came into sight. They stood with Their backs to me, watching something on the machine. Watching like anything. There was a terrible intentness to the way They stood.

  It made me hold my breath. I nearly burst before one of Them nodded, then the other. They moved off then, in a cheerful busy way, to somewhere out of sight of the window. I wished I could see. I knew They were going to do something important. But I never saw. I only felt. The ground suddenly trembled, and the trees, and the triangular castle. They sort of shook, the way hot air does. I trembled too, and felt a peculiar twitch, as if I’d been pulled to one side all over. Then the feeling stopped. Nothing more happened.

  After a moment, I crept away, until I came to the wall round the park. I was scared—yes—but I was furiously interested too. I kept wondering what made that twitch, and why everything had trembled.

  As soon as I was over the wall again, it was as if my ears had popped. I could hear trains clanking and traffic rumbling—almost a roar of city noise—and that made me more interested than ever. I dropped down into the side street beyond the wall and went along to the busy street where the front of the castle was. On this side the castle was blackerlooking and guarded from the pavement by an iron paling like a row of harpoons. Behind the railings, the windows were all shuttered, in dark steel shutters. The upper windows were just slits, but they had harpoons across them too.

  I looked up and I thought, No way to get in here. Yes, I was thinking of getting in from the moment I felt that twitch. I had to know what strange silent thing was going on inside. I went along the railings to the front door. It was shut, and black, and not very big. But I could tell, somehow, that it was massively heavy. There was an engraved plate screwed to the middle of the door. I didn’t dare go up the four steps to the door, but I could see the plate quite well from the pavement. It was done in gold, on black, and it said:

  THE OLD FORT

  MASTERS OF THE REAL AND ANCIENT GAME

  And underneath was the stamped-out shape of a ship’s anchor. That was all. It had me almost dancing with interest and frustration.

  I had to go home then, or my mother would have known I was out. She never did like me to hang around in the streets. Of course I couldn’t tell her where I’d been, but I was so curious that I did ask a few casual questions.

  “I was reading a book today,” I said to her. “And there was something in it I didn’t know. What’s Masters of the Real and Ancient Game?”

  “Sounds like deer hunting to me,” my mother said, pouring out the tea. “Take this cup through to your father in the shop.”

  I took the tea through and asked my father. He had a different theory. “Sounds like one of those secret societies,” he said. My hair began to prickle and try to stand up. “You know—silly stuff,” my father said. “Grown men swearing oaths and acting daft mumbo-jumbo.”

  “This one’s at the Old Fort,” I said.

  “Where’s that?” said my father. “Never heard of it.”

  Mumbo-jumbo, I thought. Well, those cloaks were that all right, but it doesn’t explain the machines and the twitch. Next morning, for a wonder, I went straight to school and asked my teacher before lessons. He didn’t know either. I could tell he didn’t, because he gave me a long talk, until the bell went, all about how real meant royal and that could apply both to tennis and to deer hunting, and how the old kings kept whole lumps of country to themselves to hunt deer in, and then on about Freemasons, in case that was what it meant. When the bell went, I asked him quickly about the Old Fort. And he had never heard of it, but he told me to go and ask at the Public Library, if I was interested.

  I went to the Library on the way home from school. The Librarian there might have been my teacher’s twin. He wore the same sort of beard and half-moon spectacles and went on and on in the same way. And he didn’t know either. He gave me a book on chess and another on tennis and another on hunting—none of them the slightest use—and one called Buildings of Note. That was not much use either. It actually had a picture of the Old Fort, one of those beautifully neat gray drawings of the front of it, harpoons and all. Underneath that, someone had spilt ink all over what it said.
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br />   I was so annoyed that, like a fool, I took it and showed it to the Librarian. And he thought I’d done it. That’s the worst of being a boy. You get blamed for everything. I still haven’t got used to it. He howled and he raved and he ordered me out. And I had to go. It made me more determined than ever to find out about the Old Fort. I was so annoyed.

  That ink was no accident. I thought that even then. There was no ink anywhere else on the book. They don’t want people to know. It would have looked odd if there had been nothing about the Old Fort. Someone would have tried to find out. So They let it get into the book and then made sure no one could read it. That’s the way They do things.

  “You think you’ve put me off, don’t you?” I said to Them in the street outside the Library. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  I went home. It was order day. In the shop, my father was packing piles of groceries in cardboard boxes to take round to customers. Rob usually took them. As I told you, Rob liked all things to do with the shop. But I was there, so I was roped in too. For once, that was just what I wanted. Rob was annoyed. He was afraid I was going to want to ride the tricycle. Rob loved that thing, and so did my father—I can’t think why. It weighed about a ton, and it had a solid metal box in front to put the cardboard boxes in. Once you had even one box of groceries aboard, your legs creaked just getting the trike moving, and the only way you could go was either in a straight line forward, or round in a tight circle. I let Rob have it. I took up the nearest box and carried it off. As soon as I was out of sight of Rob, I threw away the note on top which said Mrs. Macready and carried the box, groceries and all, down to the Old Fort.