Lilliput Read online

  ‘“How do we save his life?” I asked.

  ‘Gulliver smiled and showed me the things in his palm.

  ‘A splinter of wood and a tangle of spider silk.

  ‘“I can’t save him, Lily,” he said. “I am old, and my fingers are clumsy. But you can do it. With your nimble fingers and sharp eyesight you can stitch him back together.”

  ‘At first I just laughed. “I’ll never help you, you nondongling nunnerbutt,” I said.

  ‘But Gulliver smiled. “You won’t be helping me,” he said. “You will be helping this man. And if you don’t, he will die.”

  ‘“He won’t,” I said, looking at Mr Plinker’s mangled hand and the sticky red around it. “Giants have oceans of blood. He’s only lost a lake’s worth.”

  ‘“That doesn’t matter,” said Gulliver. “If you don’t stitch him back together then an infection will creep into the wound, and he will catch a fever and die. And when he dies his apprentice – who is only a boy – will be homeless. He has a cat too. Without an owner to look after them they will probably starve.”

  ‘I looked across at the clock maker as he whimpered in his sleep, and even though I was seeing him for the first time … even though I didn’t know then just how nasty Mr Plinker was, he still sent a shiver up my spine.

  ‘But that didn’t matter. Mr Plinker was dying, and I could save his life. If I refused it would make me a murderer. And a murderer is one of the worst things you can be. Even worse than a kidnapper.

  ‘“I’ll do it,” I said at last to Gulliver. “Not for you. Not for Mr Plinker, either. But for his apprentice. And his cat.”

  ‘So I stepped onto Gulliver’s palm. I picked up the splinter. I threaded it with the spider silk then sat down by Mr Plinker’s mangled hand. And, quickly as I could, I started to sew …

  ‘That’s how I saved Mr Plinker’s life. And that’s how we ended up in his attic too,’ Lily finished.

  AS LILY FINISHED her story the imaginary crowds of listening Lilliputians faded away. She was still in the Sock. Still trapped. She waited for Gulliver to take pity and let her out. Nothing happened. The itching and the smell and the fleas carried on.

  Her story hadn’t changed anything, but it had helped. For a little while.

  So Lily took a deep breath and told it again. Two hundred and twelve times she told the story of Mr Plinker and his murderous clock. Over and over until her throat was sore.

  The first one hundred times the story was a way to escape Gulliver’s prison. Lily imagined herself telling the story to Lilliputian crowds all across the island – to the fishermen, at the Plips minnow market … To the crowds of passers-by, at Lilliput’s capital of Mildendo … And even to the Emperor Himself, at the Imperial palace at Belfaborac.

  But eventually that grew boring.

  The second hundred times the story became a way for Lily to let Gulliver know how furious she was with him. She embellished her tale with unflattering descriptions of his silly spectacles and wrinkled face. The moment she called him a nondongling nunnerbut became a whole torrent of insults.

  But eventually insulting Gulliver became boring too.

  So, for the final twelve times, Lily spoke just to remind Gulliver that she was still there. She spoke to stop him forgetting.

  Though the Sock was far too thick for Lily to see through, its coarse wool did let in the colour of the light. And so it was that she saw the moonbeams tarnish, from silver to steel to rusted iron.

  And she saw the sky outside turn from black to bruise-blue to pink, and heard birds begin to sing.

  And still Gulliver left her there.

  Dawn came.

  Though he had punished her before Gulliver had never left her in the Sock for so long. Lily had always considered herself too precious for him to hurt in any way. Now, for the first time, she realised how helpless she was. How completely in his power.

  On and on her punishment went, on and on without end. Lily became frightened. She didn’t know how much more she could bear … But, at last, something rescued her from the monotony of bites, itches, stinks and start-again stories.

  It wasn’t Gulliver.

  It was a smell; the smell of breakfast wafting up the stairs.

  Lily gasped. The smell was so rich, so delicious and so unexpected that, for a moment, she almost fainted. Then a flea jumped up and nipped her, right in her armpit, and she yelped and came to again.

  Oh! Lily thought, cold tears on her raw cheeks. Breakfast! Surely Gulliver will let me out now, I haven’t eaten in hours!

  Breakfast was always porridge and coffee. It arrived every morning at six. It came in a bowl and a mug, which Gulliver would then decant into thimbles for Lily. He paid Mr Plinker sixpence a day to bring breakfast up the staircase and leave it on the landing by the attic door.

  Mr Plinker never came inside, and Lily had only seen him once, on the night she saved his life. But though she never saw the clock maker, Lily still knew when he was bringing up the breakfast, because of the racket he made.

  Giants made so much noise that it was very difficult for Lily not to hear them. Even when Mr Plinker tried his best to tiptoe up the stairs she knew he was there from the stomp-squelch of his heart and the bubble-boil of his blood and the rattle-wheeze of his lungs.

  There was also the smell. Mr Plinker stank of rot and swamps. The clock maker could always be identified by his farts, which came out in great gut-tearing torrents, as if his trousers had ripped.

  Usually when he came up the stairs Lily was torn between holding her nose and covering her ears. But not this time. This time something very strange was happening.

  For the first time ever, the person now outside on the landing was absolutely not Mr Plinker.

  It was somebody else.

  A stranger.

  Even inside the sweaty Sock, Lily could tell that this stranger was different. He smelled of brass and polish. He sounded different too. His blood didn’t bubble-boil, it river-rushed; his heart didn’t stomp-squelch, it quiver-clenched.

  And there were other clues.

  Mr Plinker always tiptoed up the seventeen stairs as softly as he could. Then, he kneeled on the landing every morning (knees making a sound like pencils snapping), and did his best to eavesdrop on Gulliver.

  Then, after straining his ears at the blocked-up keyhole, the clock maker would without fail clunk the porridge and coffee down, get to his feet, and tap-tap-tap his shoe impatiently for Gulliver to call out ‘Many thanks’ and push a sixpence under the door.

  The stranger – whoever it was – could hardly have been more different. Lily heard them clomp up the stairs, lay out the breakfast, and then clomp back down again.

  No eavesdropping.

  No foot-tapping.

  They were there, and then they were gone. Or were they?

  Inside the Sock Lily felt something else gnaw away at her, and unless she had accidentally swallowed a flea she didn’t know what it could be. Something else wasn’t right. Something else had been different.

  She racked her brains. Clomping up the stairs, no eavesdropping, no foot-tapping, clomping back down again … What else?

  All at once she realised. That was it! Mr Plinker always climbed seventeen steps up and down the stairs. Lily counted the stranger’s steps back down the stairs – he had stopped at twelve.

  So whoever it was hadn’t gone away. They were still five steps from the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  GULLIVER’S CHAIR SCRAPED on the floor as he rose from his desk. He pulled open the door. Lily’s stomach lurched as the Sock swung on its nail.

  ‘Gulliver,’ she whimpered, knowing he was close enough to hear. ‘Let me out. Please, let me out.’

  Outside the Sock, Gulliver hesitated. Lily felt him wavering.

  ‘Let me out,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ll tell you a secret.’

  She heard him sigh as he put a sixpence on the landing, gathered up the breakfast and shut the door. Then the Soc
k lifted off its nail, the world turned on its head and Lily was falling. She tumbled out, bounced upon Gulliver’s bed and ploughed into a twist of bed sheets.

  There she lay in a heap, gasping with relief. Her whole body ached and stung, but at least now the air was fresh and cool, and wasn’t full of fleas. It was heaven.

  Looking up, she saw Gulliver watching.

  ‘I have rewritten the pages you burned,’ he said. ‘The damage was … not as bad as I first thought.’

  She didn’t answer. He fetched two thimbles, one of porridge and one of coffee, and laid them on the mattress beside her.

  ‘I am sorry, Lily,’ he said. ‘I punished you too harshly. It was not fair. But I was angry, and I … I did something that comes very naturally to us yahoos – I was cruel. I won’t do it again, ever.’

  And he threw the Sock onto the fireplace.

  As it smouldered and burned on the coals Lily staggered to her feet and gave Gulliver her best glare. He did look very sorry, but that didn’t mean she forgave him. It didn’t mean she was sorry for scorching his Book of Travels, either.

  ‘Eat, Lily,’ said Gulliver, slurping on his porridge. ‘Drink.’

  Her stomach rumbled and her throat was dry as dust, but Lily pushed the thimbles away with her toe.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he pleaded. ‘Just now you said you would tell me a secret. Well, go on. I’m listening.’

  Lily opened her mouth, then clamped it shut again. Why should she tell him about the stranger on the stairs? It would mean she had forgiven him, and she hadn’t. He needed to be tormented. Just a little. She wanted to punish him, for punishing her.

  ‘Lily,’ he said miserably. ‘Please, Lily. I do not like to think of you being unhappy here. I want you—no, I want us … to work together. To tell the world the truth.’

  He edged the coffee forward with the tip of his little finger. She pushed it away again with her foot.

  ‘But you must drink,’ he said, draining his cup dry. ‘You must eat. You must look after yourself. It is necessary.’

  Lily narrowed her eyes, crossed her arms and shook her head.

  Gulliver blinked at her slowly. ‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked. ‘I am exhausted. Surely some coffee would make you feel better.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I think I need another cup myself.’

  He yawned and fetched the coffee pot. He poured it out, but missed his cup completely.

  ‘Ouch!’ he hissed as the hot drink poured over his hand. He fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief, brought one out and dropped it.

  Reaching down to pick it up he somehow fell off his chair.

  THUMP!

  Lily laughed. Her laugh faded to a frown. Gulliver wasn’t getting back up. On her hands and knees she crawled across the bed and peered over the edge.

  Gulliver lay on the floor, blinking stupidly.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Lily. ‘Why are you lying on the floor?’

  Gulliver stared at her in utter bewilderment. ‘But I am not lying on the floor,’ he said after a moment. ‘You are lying on the ceiling!’

  Lily was now quite confused herself. What was he talking about? Gulliver was sweating, sweating all over, and he wiped his head with his arm.

  ‘What is wrong with me?’ he gasped. ‘What have you done?’

  With one arm he clutched feebly at his coffee mug. He raised it to his nose and sniffed.

  ‘Sleeping drops!’ His eyes bulged, and in them Lily saw him think of something: a brown glass bottle. ‘You … you drugged me with my own medicine!’

  Lily was astonished. Had she? Sleeping drops in Gulliver’s coffee certainly sounded like one of her Escape Plans – and a very good one too. It was just that she couldn’t remember doing it. But if it not her, who?

  Then she remembered the stranger on the stairs.

  ‘How?’ Gulliver rasped, trying to lift himself from the floor. ‘I left the sleeping drops … on Mr Plinker’s counter … the night you stitched him back together … How did you get hold of them?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Lily insisted. ‘It wasn’t me, it was …’ But she couldn’t say, because she didn’t know.

  ‘Lily … don’t leave me,’ Gulliver gasped. ‘What about … progress? What about … truth? What about …?’ Dribble spilled over his lips and onto his chin.

  Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he started snoring like a baby.

  Lily stared down at the giant in shock. Then she leaped into the air as if struck by lightning. There was a thump, thump, thump coming up the stairs.

  The stranger!

  She had to find somewhere to hide!

  The quilt on Gulliver’s bed was one big twist and tangle; all piled up on itself like a gigantic sloppy wedding cake. Lily spotted a fold and ran towards it as the stranger’s steps grew louder, closer …

  Come on, Lily! Wriggle your way in!

  The stranger was on the landing.

  Hurry! Get your legs in too!

  The doorknob turned.

  Don’t get seen …

  The door swung open.

  Quick!

  With a final kick and wriggle, Lily squirmed inside the quilt. She lay there, gasping for breath and listening. Someone was there. But who? Not daring to make a sound, she peeked out of the quilt fold and saw him.

  Another giant.

  A boy.

  ‘Lily?’ he said. ‘Lily, are you there?’

  LILY WAS FLABBERGASTED. The boy in the doorway was talking to her. He knew her name.

  She shook her head, because that was impossible. She was Gulliver’s secret, his prisoner, his prized possession … No other giant in London knew Lily even existed. Yet the boy stood in the doorway and spoke to her again.

  ‘I got your note, Lily,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  The boy wore a grimy waistcoat. He took a scrap of paper from the pocket. His fingers unfolded it nimbly and held it out to the room.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘Here.’

  Peeking further out of the fold in the quilt, Lily squinted and saw.

  On the scrap of paper were words. Her words. The story she had written with an eyelash, a dozen nights and plans ago, and signed:

  Lily

  She was amazed. The last time she’d seen her story it had been tied to Squeak’s tail …

  It worked, she thought numbly. After all this time, Escape Plan Twenty-One … actually worked. This boy found my note!

  Lily almost jumped out there and then, shouting: ‘I’m here, I’m here, what took you so long?!’

  But she stopped herself. Squeak might have trusted this boy with her story, but Lily still had too many questions. Who was he? Where had he come from? What would he do now?

  She peered into the boy’s blue eyes for an answer, trying to see if his thoughts were there, but he stood too far away.

  ‘Lily?’ he whispered, creeping further into the room. ‘Lily, you must be here somewhere. Where are you?’

  But Lily kept quiet. Hidden in the quilt folds, she studied his thick black hair, his skin tinged pink, his fingertips stained with oil and scars. She remembered what Gulliver had said, about the giants not realising how big they were.

  He’s taller than a house, she thought, but he thinks he’s small.

  That gave her a good feeling. Now she was beginning to see why Squeak had trusted this boy with her story.

  Should she take a chance and trust him too?

  I want to, she told herself.

  ‘You have to come out, Lily,’ said the boy desperately. ‘We don’t have long.’

  He looked down anxiously. There was a watch attached to his wrist and it was ticking.

  He’s Mr Plinker’s apprentice, Lily realised suddenly. The one who found Gulliver when the clock maker was hurt. The one who brought us here.

  ‘Please, Lily,’ the boy whispered. ‘We’re wasting time.’

  As if in agreement the watch buckled around his wrist went ding-dong, and the boy hissed
in pain and clutched his arm.

  Lily stared at the watch in shock. It was sharp-edged, the colour of rusted iron. The clock face was a warped oval, with a single jagged hand. It was attached by a leather strap that coiled around the boy’s wrist. There was no buckle. No way to loosen it.

  It’s on far too tight, Lily thought. Why doesn’t he just take it off?

  A chilling idea came: Maybe he can’t.

  Lily bit her lip. She flitted between trust and doubt like a bird between branches – the boy seemed kind, but what about his watch? It looked just like one of Mr Plinker’s inventions. Cruel.

  Evil.

  ‘Lily?’ said the boy, rubbing the pain at his wrist. ‘You don’t have to hide. I’m not here to hurt you. I found your note … well, Horatio found it really, but I snatched it from him.’

  The last bit of Lily’s good feeling disappeared. So the boy hadn’t found her note at all. He had stolen it from someone else. What if he was here to snatch her too?

  ‘I was tinkering in the workshop,’ the boy babbled on in a whisper. ‘Horatio came up the stairs to have his lunch. He’d caught a mouse. Luckily he always plays with his food, and the little thing managed to get away before Horatio could gobble him up.’

  Lily recoiled in horror. Poor Squeak! So he hadn’t trusted a giant at all – instead he’d been caught and almost eaten! She felt sick. Gulliver had told her that all yahoos were savage and cruel, but until now she’d never quite believed him.

  ‘I chased Horatio back down the stairs, and that’s when I saw it … the tip of a mouse’s tail, left on the step. Horatio must have chopped it off with his claws. And wrapped around the tail was your note.’

  Lily wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to scream and shout. She wanted to find this horrible Horatio and chop him up into bits, to see how he liked it. But she couldn’t. She had to stay still.

  She closed her eyes and sent a little prayer up to the Ender. For Squeak. Her brave little half-tailed mouse. Then she thought about what to do next. She had a choice to make.