Arthur and the Fenris Wolf (10 page)

Arthur stood up, his back stiff and sore. He arched backwards and heard a loud crack, which actually helped relieve some of the pain.

‘You all right?' asked Ash, who was standing nearby.

‘I will be. I'll just sit out the rest of the game.' He hobbled off the pitch and sat on one of the bleachers, making sure he wasn't anywhere near Ciara and the other girls. He didn't feel like listening to them prattle on about eyeliner and shades of nail polish, especially when he was already in pain. The game went on without him, everybody too engrossed to notice his absence and, as he grew bored of watching, Arthur's thoughts once again drifted off.

‘Sorry about my brother.' Slightly startled, Arthur looked up to find the source of the voice. Ellie Lavender had left the girls and was standing over him. Her too-big trench coat danced in the breeze.

‘It's OK,' he said. ‘Not your fault.'

Without asking if she could join him, she sat down.

‘Arthur, right?' she said. ‘I'm Ellie. Nice to meet you.' They shook hands.

‘Sorry again about Ex,' she continued. ‘I got the brains in the family and he got the brawn. I like to think I got the best deal.'

‘He's pretty strong,' Arthur agreed.

‘He doesn't know his own strength.'

‘He's older than the rest of us. What's he doing in sixth class?' Arthur instantly regretted such a straightforward question, but when he looked at Ellie she didn't seem to mind. She seemed pretty straightforward herself, he supposed.

‘Like I said, I got the brains and he got the brawn. He's always struggled at schoolwork. Any time we're in a school, teachers like to keep him a year behind.'

‘And they put you a year ahead?' Arthur asked.

‘Sometimes two years!' Ellie said proudly. ‘Home schooling is better for Ex. He doesn't feel as out of place there.'

‘Neither do you, I bet.'

‘I can talk to anyone. About anything.'

‘Really?' He nodded to Ciara, Caroline and the other girls, who were staring at her out of the sides of their eyes and whispering frantically. ‘Even them?'

‘I don't think they like me very much …'

‘How did you guess about Caroline's holiday in Greece?'

‘Oh, that was easy. I spotted the tan lines on her face as soon as I came into the class.'

‘What tan lines?' Arthur looked over at the girl in question.

‘See how her face is tanned but there are whitish patches around her eyes?' Arthur did notice them now that she'd pointed them out. Ellie continued, ‘That told me that she was recently somewhere hot and sunny – she needed to wear sunglasses. And then I noticed the airport tag that was still stuck on her backpack. The letters on it were ATH – the code for Athens. I just put two and two together.'

‘Wow!' exclaimed Arthur, genuinely impressed. ‘You got all that so quickly?'

‘It's a game I like to play, although sometimes I think it scares people. I shouldn't have said it in class. Those girls don't really like me now.'

‘I'm sure they'll come around.'

‘Maybe.' She looked at the game and watched as her brother scored yet another try to great applause. ‘Like I said, I'm not afraid to talk to anyone but … well … I'm not very good at making friends. People don't seem to get me.'

Before Arthur could comment, she turned back to him. ‘So, Arthur, tell me about your adventure.'

He was taken aback and rendered momentarily speechless. ‘Uh, adventure?'

‘You did nearly drown a few days ago, right? You and Ash? Ciara and Caroline were talking about it and I may have eavesdropped.'

‘Oh!' He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Yeah. Quite the adventure, all right.'

Just then, the school-bell rang, announcing the end of break-time.

‘So?' Ellie urged. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘That's the bell, though,' he said. ‘We need to go back to class.'

‘Oh, yeah.' She seemed disappointed. ‘It always takes me a while to get used to following the school-bell routine.'

Ellie had got the hang of the school-bells by the time the last one of the day rang, and she rushed from the classroom as eagerly as the rest of her classmates. Before they went, the teacher reminded them that the annual parent–teacher meeting would take place in a couple of weeks' time and gave them all flyers to take home. Arthur and Ash walked silently together to their bus stop just outside the school, the air between them still not clear. They stood in silence, neither quite knowing what to say to the other.

‘Oh, hi guys!' Ellie said, catching up with them. Ex was standing behind her; he just nodded at them and grunted.

‘Hi, Ellie,' Arthur said. ‘Have you met Ash yet?'

The two girls shook hands.

‘This is Ex,' Ellie said, reaching up to lay her tiny hand on her huge brother's shoulder. ‘Say “hello” Ex.'

‘Hello Ex,' said the older Lavender sibling as Arthur and Ash's bus pulled up.

‘Ooh!' said Ellie, as Arthur and Ash started to board. ‘The number 11 bus! Eleven's a good number. It's lucky.'

‘Really?' Arthur asked, stepping onto the bus.

‘Yup! Well, goodbye, Arthur! Goodbye, Ash! See you tomorr–!'

The bus door whooshed shut, cutting off the end of the word.

‘What a pair of weirdos,' Ash said, walking up to the second deck of the bus and finding a seat near the back. Arthur sat next to her.

‘I like them,' he said.

‘Even Ex? After what he did?'

‘He was only playing the game. Maybe he doesn't realise his own strength. I kind of feel sorry for him.' He took this as his opportunity to make up with Ash. ‘Actually, speaking of which …'

‘Yeah?'

‘I just want to say I'm sorry for arguing with you.'

‘I'm sorry too,' she said.

‘I still think you should be careful around Ice, though.'

‘And I still think you're wrong.'

‘I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree then,' said Arthur.

Ash studied him for a moment then nodded. ‘Friends again?'

‘Friends!' agreed Arthur.

The bright spell of weather had passed but the cold snap remained on the day Podge McGarry found the jar. The sky was overcast – yellow clouds threatening snow – as he made his way across the Usher's Quay Metro site. The ground was hard and would have been slippery with ice if not for the uneven scattering of pebbles and rubble giving extra traction to his boots. He pushed a wheelbarrow over the bumpy ground. The heavy jackhammer in it bounced severely on every pothole.

Podge was in his mid-forties. The top of his head was completely bald, but he made up for it with a bushy grey moustache. A pot belly – the result of too many greasy breakfast rolls – hung precariously over his belt. He was wearing a padded bomber jacket, cargo work pants, a pair of steel-toed boots and a worn beanie embroidered with the Citi-Trak logo. He was also sporting a bright-yellow high-visibility jacket, as was compulsory on the worksite. He walked with a slight limp – the result of a teenage car accident.

There weren't many people about on the main site today. Most of the excavators were down in the tunnel, operating the huge drill or building support systems. The engineers – the bossmen, as Podge liked to call them – were holed up inside the warm Citi-Trak on-site offices. These were essentially a pair of long and low prefab buildings full of computers, plans, paperwork and, most importantly, electric heaters, tea and biscuits. Lucky sods, Podge thought bitterly, heaving the wheelbarrow through a particularly troublesome pothole.

He didn't mind working on his own, though. In fact, he enjoyed his own company far more than anyone else's. He could drift off into his own thoughts, nothing to bother him except the droning sound of the jackhammer. His job today was a simple one. The icy weather had caused havoc with the water system all over the country of late. Water froze solid in the pipes, bursting them and creating leaks that wasted thousands of gallons of water. Old pipes lay under the site and Podge's job was to find them so that the on-site plumbers could replace them. If one of the old clay pipes burst while excavation was ongoing, there's no telling what damage it could do.

He turned a corner to the first spot he had to dig. A young engineer, whose name he thought was Ruairí, was spray-painting a large red X on the ground. As always, he was unshaven, with tousled, unkempt hair. But, for a change, he didn't have that other young engineer – Deirdre, Podge thought – with him. Since the pair had started going out a few months ago, they'd been inseparable.

‘Hi, Podge!' Ruairí said pleasantly, putting the cap back on the paint can.

‘Hullo,' grunted Podge, barely looking up. He put the wheelbarrow down and lifted the jackhammer out. It was so heavy he could only manage to shuffle it over to the spot the engineer had marked.

‘This should be where the first pipe is,' Ruairí explained, indicating the X. ‘Need a hand with anything?'

‘No, it's grand.'

‘OK. I'll let you get on with it so.' He walked off in the direction of the heated office. Lucky sod, Podge thought to himself again.

He put a hard hat on over his beanie, followed by plastic goggles and a pair of ear defenders that clung tightly to the side of his head, turning all outside sound into a distant echo. He positioned the chisel of the jackhammer right on the centre of the X, then switched on the pneumatics.

The internal hammer pounded up and down rapidly. He could feel each vibration juddering up his arms and even into his teeth as the chisel broke through the top crust of earth. He was so used to the machinery that he was able to drift away, humming a tune softly in his head, yet still instinctively know when he was coming close to the target. But he was shocked out of his thoughts when, suddenly, the chisel ground to a halt underneath him. The machinery screeched and spluttered. He could feel heat rising from it and saw a small trail of white smoke seeping through one of its vent holes. Before he did any real damage, he shut the jackhammer off. It wheezed to a stop and he laid it on the ground next to the shallow hole he'd made.

He knelt down and examined the hollow. It was only a few inches deep. He brushed aside the remnants of dust and earth and found the source of the problem. He'd hit rock.

Podge knocked his knuckle on it. He didn't know one type of rock from another, but this one seemed harder than most; it didn't give off the hollow ring that limestone did. The jackhammer could probably break through it, but only given time and probably a couple of replacement chisel pieces. Both of which he didn't have. His best option would be to work around it then lift it out to reveal the pipe.

Unsure how big the piece of rock might be, he decided to start fairly close to the original spot and move further away by stages as necessary. He lifted the jackhammer back up and placed the chisel two feet away from his first attempt. He straightened his hard hat then switched on the machine once more.

This time he concentrated on what he was doing, keeping a close eye on the chisel hammering into the ground. When it passed lower than his previous effort, he breathed a sigh of relief. But this was short-lived as he felt a sharp crack through the vibrations in his hands. Suddenly, a lumpy cream-coloured substance started to ooze up out of the second hole. He immediately turned the jackhammer off and laid it aside.

Although the substance quickly stopped seeping out, it gave off a strong, sour stench. Gagging, Podge pulled his jacket collar up over his nose and mouth to try and filter out the smell and bent down for a closer look. The gunk wasn't the only thing that had come out of the hole, he now saw. A small piece of red pottery was lying on its surface. He reached out and picked it up, hoping that it wasn't a shard of the water pipe and that he hadn't done more damage to it than the ice had.

For a moment he almost panicked as he saw that it was a rounded chip of earthenware, similar to an old pipe. But then he realised that this was no pipe. This was different. A pattern of swirls and interweaving loops was carved into the shard. Whatever this was, Podge realised, it was clearly very, very old.

Deirdre had left the noise of the tunnel and was heading towards the engineers' office when she spotted the excavator looking intently at something in his hands. She was tall and slim, and her hips wiggled when she walked. Her hair was, as usual, tied into a neat bun under her hard hat and her thick, round glasses magnified her brown eyes to almost twice their size.

She diverted from her course and strode over to Podge.

‘What've you got there?' she asked. Suddenly, the sour stench slammed her in the face. ‘Pee-ew! And what's that awful smell?'

‘It's that stuff.' He pointed at the creamy slime oozing out of the hole he'd made. ‘Do you reckon it's sewage?'

‘I doubt it. I've seen sewage down in the tunnel and it doesn't look – or smell – like that!'

‘Found this too.' He handed her the slice of pottery. ‘I think it's pretty old.'

She studied it for a beat, tracing her fingertip over the carved swirls. ‘I reckon you're right,' she said.

Within minutes Deirdre had gathered up Ruairí and Joe Quinn from the office. They were all standing around Podge's find, holding their noses. The grumpy excavator stood to one side smoking a cigarette – if only to block out the stench.

‘What is it?' Ruairí said, his voice sounding unusually nasal as he pinched his nose.

‘Haven't a clue,' answered Deirdre.

‘I think I know what it is,' Joe said, turning the shard of earthenware in his free hand.

‘What?' Ruairí asked, looking up at his boss.

‘It's butter.' Joe turned away from the hole and paced quickly back towards the office.

‘Butter?' Deirdre repeated, as the pair of them trailed after him.

‘Yup, butter.' He didn't seem too pleased with the discovery. ‘In college, one of my lecturers told me that he was working on an excavation in Cork years ago. Work had to stop when they found a jar of butter left under the ground by the Celts. He even showed us photos of the stuff and it's just like this. Shortly after that it was made law that all big digs like this had to have archaeologists survey them in advance of work starting.'

‘Which means that …?' Ruairí prompted, unsure of the situation.

‘We're going to have to call in the experts.'

Joe made the call to the University College Dublin archaeology department personally. The lady who took the call promised that they would send someone over to have a look within the hour and, true to her word, an archaeology professor along with a couple of volunteer students arrived forty minutes later. Soon the students were on their knees, chipping away at the surrounding earth with tiny chisels and hammers.

The day wore on. Joe and the engineers stayed in the office, waiting to hear from the small team what had been found and sipping mugs of instant coffee.

‘Shouldn't we call Luke Moran?' Deirdre spoke up at one stage. Joe was shocked he hadn't thought of it himself. Luke Moran, the CEO of Citi-Trak, should have been the first person he'd called.

He dialled Moran's number on his phone, only for the secretary who answered to tell him that Moran was out of the office, making an appearance on a cookery programme. It was a well-known fact that Luke Moran enjoyed self-publicity as much as he enjoyed making money or getting angry and shouting at his staff. Joe left a message with the harassed secretary, saying that they'd found something on the site and had had to call in some archaeologists.

Eventually, there was a knock on the prefab door. Joe rushed to answer it. Dr Martin, the archaeology professor, stepped in. He brushed his dusty hands on his trousers to clean them and leaned against the prefab wall.

‘It's Viking,' he said, clearly excited from the pitch of his voice. ‘We can't be sure of the date yet but I'd approximate some time between ad 1000 and 1100. My students are just collecting some specimens of the butter. Possibly the best example we've ever discovered in Dublin. And it's–'

‘But what will this mean for the tunnel excavation?' Joe interrupted him.

‘Oh, you'll have to put it on hold,' the head archaeologist said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

‘But it's only one jar!'

The professor rolled his eyes as if he'd heard this objection before. ‘So far there's only one jar, but we'll have to do a complete new survey and some trial trenches to see if there's anything else.'

‘How long will that take?'

‘It's difficult to tell exactly. It could be that there actually is only one find or it could mean that we're standing over a whole Viking settlement. Could be a month; could be twelve. This is a big site. Either way, we'll have to shut down excavation for a while.'

Joe, Deirdre and Ruairí sighed in united despair.

‘I'm sorry,' Dr Martin went on, sensing their dejection. ‘I realise this is probably quite a blow to your schedule. I'll just see if my students are finished and we'll be on our way. I'll be in touch shortly.'