Flying High Read Online Free Page B

yelled, “Tomorrow in Jerusalem!
    The cry was immediately taken up in a great roar. “Tomorrow in Jerusalem! Tomorrow in Jerusalem!” Once it had started, the cry went on, wave upon wave of sound crashing on my ears.
    “Tomorrow in the cemetery, more like,” said Lola grimly.
    I puffed out my cheeks. I’d only been here a few hours but it already felt like a lifetime. Orlando had been coping with this for weeks. I made a secret vow to do everything I could to help him.
    I’ll be completely professional, I told myself. Then Orlando might see me in a completely different light.
    We were getting closer to the port. The air had acquired a distinctly fishy smell, along with that familiar olden-times pong of sewage and rotting garbage. Except for an occasional horse-drawn cart rumbling along on clunky wooden wheels, there wasn’t much traffic. It was too hot for sensible folk to be out. But the children went marching on.
    We had left the countryside behind a while ago, and the dirt track had turned into narrow cobbled streets. Medieval tenements loomed up on either side of us, like gloomy great canyons, blocking out the sunlight.
    A sleepy murmuring came from behind all the closed shutters. The locals were waking from their afternoon siesta.
    As they heard the kids approaching, doors and shutters flew open.
    Everyone wanted to see this extraordinary procession.
    Orlando caught us up. “This is where things could get ugly,” he warned. I heard his tired voice going up the line, keeping the overworked trainees on their toes. He was obviously expecting major trouble.
    In fact the people of Marseilles were really sweet, clapping and calling out encouragingly, as if the kids were athletes at the end of a super-demanding marathon. A girl leaned out of an upstairs window and started throwing flowers. The idea caught on and suddenly rose and jasmine petals were raining down. The children marched on through falling blossoms, their eyes feverish with excitement.
    The cart with its outriders had moved to the front by this time, the bright flags and the sound of drums and flutes all adding to the atmosphere. Some kids actually found the energy to turn cartwheels and somersaults. Their childish singing sent eerie echoes around the walls of the medieval tenements. The whole thing was dreamlike but also weirdly disturbing. Suddenly I realised why. “This is like that story!” I whispered to my mates. “The Pied Piper or whatever.”
    Reuben didn’t know the fairytale, so I had to fill him in. By the time I’d reached the part where the spellbound children followed the mysterious piper into the countryside, never to be seen again, the cobblestones had run out. And there in front of us was the hot dazzling blue of the Mediterranean.
    Ships, like elaborately carved wooden castles, rode at anchor, their sails tightly furled. Sailors climbed up the rigging as nimbly as if they were just going upstairs. Others were unloading sacks and barrels, or ferrying small rowboats back and forth across the harbour.
    Marseilles is only just across the water from Morocco, and the dockside smells of rope and tar were deliciously mingled with exotic spices and the scent of foreign perfumes.
    I’d had no idea that the Middle Ages were so multicultural! The whole world was there: black, white and golden-skinned seamen, all cheerfully fraternising with local tarts and gangsters, not to mention Arabs and Africans in dazzling ethnic clothes.
    This is SO cool, I thought. Just in time I remembered I was supposed to be on duty. Stop being a time tourist, Melanie, I scolded myself. You’re supposed to be looking out for trouble.
    I didn’t have far to look.
    A boy emerged from inside the cart, shielding his eyes from the glare. He was dressed in what had probably once been a white tunic with an extra piece of grubby white drapery trailing over his shoulder. His wispy golden hair needed a wash.
    Now personally, I would never recommend the guru look, unless