Fireborn Page 14
“I’ll be back Up Top by then,” said Perry, still with his eyes shut.
“You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me,” said Megawhim.
“It couldn’t hurt me. I’m a roffle.”
“Do you think so? It looked to me like you were hurt.”
“Only a little,” said Perry.
Megawhim snorted.
“You think you know everything, don’t you? Well, do you know about Megarath?”
“Who?”
Megawhim nodded and smiled.
“That’s right. Who? You might ask who, all right.”
Perry sat up and put his hands round his knees.
“Tell me,” he said.
“We’ll eat first. Come on.”
Hunger and curiosity are a powerful combination. Perry followed, taking care to make sure he paid attention to the way they were going so that he could get back again as soon as he was ready and go back Up Top to Cabbage.
If you know where to look there are roffle holes all over the place, entrances to the Deep World. But even if you’ve been shown one and even if you make a map and indicate the place very carefully it’s difficult to find them unless you’re a roffle and then it’s so simple that roffles find it hard to believe that people can’t see them plain. Some wizards can do it, but not even all of them.
Once you’re in the Deep World there are places to eat everywhere as well. Food is very important to roffles so every house always has more than enough. When a roffle is hungry all he has to do is to knock on any door and ask for food. If you do this the householder will invite you in, ask if you’d like to eat alone or with the family and then provide what you need.
A very small person, even for a roffle, opened the door to them. She had flour on her hands from making pastry, and some on her cheek where she’d brushed hair out of her eyes, and a smile like a soft breeze. Megawhim asked for a meal and a private talk with Perry, which the householder was glad to arrange.
“There’s a new pie, just out of the oven,” she said. “Or some cold salmon and thick lemon and dill dressing.”
They had one of each.
“Megarath,” said Megawhim, “went Up Top years and years ago. He said he liked it better up there, but really he’d had a quarrel with his neighbours and was too proud to make it up. He ate nothing but human food. He never breathed the air from the Deep World. The light from down here never brushed his face. He even met and married a woman from Up Top.”
Perry stopped eating and looked at his father in amazement.
“Can you do that?”
“What you can do and what you should do are two different things,” said Megawhim.
“What happened to him?”
Megawhim stared at Perry.
“She died, of course. They don’t live as long as we do. And then he was lonely. He tried to come back.”
“I would,” said Perry.
“Of course you would. Anyone would. But he couldn’t find a roffle hole.”
Perry started to laugh then stopped suddenly.
“Really?”
“Yes. In the end he got a roffle to show him one. He couldn’t eat the food here. It made him sick. He couldn’t stand the light. It hurt his skin. He couldn’t breathe the air. It hurt his chest.”
“That’s silly,” said Perry. “People like it down here. They love the food.”
Megawhim shook his head.
“They like it first,” he said. “But after a while that’s how it takes them. They can’t live down here for ever. And if they eat too much, too quickly, you know what happens to their tummies.”
Perry giggled.
“They go for a roffle holiday,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Well, after all the human food and the air Up Top and the sun and everything, Megarath was more a person than a person is. He had to go back. And, within a year, he was dead.”
Perry gasped.
“No.”
“Yes. So think about it. You’re young. Just a few weeks Up Top and the wild magic was already beginning to be able to hurt you. If I hadn’t come to drag you back. Well, who knows?”
“I’m still going back,” he said.
“That boy left you to die.”
Perry shook his head.
“He left me to save someone who was in more danger than I was.”
Megawhim scraped a corner of bread round his plate to get the last of the lemon and dill dressing. He added some butter and chewed it carefully.
“Come home,” he said.
“I will. But not yet.”
The roffle put her head round the door.
“There’s syrup pudding,” she said, and didn’t wait for an answer.
There was thick cream as well, so the conversation stopped for a while.
“What are you going back for?” he asked at last.
“We started a job,” said Perry. “You always told me that if I started a job I should finish it.”
“It has to be the right job,” said his father.
“I know.”
They thanked their host and walked back. Megawhim did not even try to persuade Perry not to go or to trick him into going to the wrong place. He opened the great door and held it for Perry to pass through.
“You won’t follow me this time, will you?”
Megawhim put his hand on his shoulder.
“Finish your job,” he said. “Come home safe. Come home soon.”
It was night when Perry stepped from behind the rock, but he didn’t know which night. Time passes at a different speed in the Deep World. It might have been the same day, or a week or a month later. Sometimes, it was the day before. Perry looked up at the sky. The stars were back.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
They made no reply to him. None that he could hear. He was full and he was tired, so he curled up and went to sleep. |
The line of black beetles trailed
down the road, a pen stroke on a creased page. Behind them, the ruin of Slowin’s Yard. Ahead, miles of dust and the ruts from farm carts. By day their crooked legs felt the approach of every traveller long before he was in sight. They veered to the side, continued their way, hidden in the grass and vetch at the roadside, slowed down but never stopping. By night they never slept.
Flaxfold stroked Bee’s green cheek. The moss was warm under her hand. She frowned, stooped to take a cloth from the bucket by the side of the bed, and dabbed it over Bee’s face, her arms, her legs. She dipped the cloth repeatedly into the bucket, replenishing the water. When she was satisfied that the girl was cool, she pinched the tender tops of herbs that she had gathered. She rubbed the herbs into the moss. As they bruised against her hands they released their scents, some sweet, some with a tang that made the mouth ache. Bee made no movement, no sound. Only the soft movement of her chest and the whisper of air from her nostrils showed that she was still alive. Flaxfold settled into an armchair that faced the window. Sometimes she watched the horizon. Sometimes she turned to look at Bee. Sometimes she slept.
The trail of beetles stretched back to Slowin’s Yard. It had no end. Beetles popped up from the cracks in the slate flagstones and joined the end of the line. Thousands of them, shiny, smooth, clattering on the slate and cobbles. They had burrowed down when the fire blazed. Down where the heat did not scorch. Beyond the reach of the fingers of fire that had grabbed everything. Almost everything.
If Cabbage had not been driven away from the yard by the beetles he would have found a pile of ash thicker than the others, raised in the middle in a stunted hump. If he had kicked at that pile as he had at the others, he would have found a boot, thick and black and buckled. This boot now moved, kicked away at the ash. The hump turned, revealing the shape of a creature, attached to the boot. The beetles clattered around it, moving the ash, clearing a space, crawling all over the creature, touching it with a grim affection.
When the creature stood it resembled a person. It was hunched, twisted and squat. I
t wore the same clothes, heated to a high polish, gleaming and hard. Smoke drifted out of the areas where the nose and ears would be if there had been a face. Flakes of charred leather broke off as it moved; the boots cracked and splintered.
It straightened, and the clothes broke open. It grabbed the jagged edges of the tear, ripped them apart and shrugged. The clothes fell off like the shell of a chestnut.
A creature emerged from the husk. For a moment, it flared up, a blue flame, then, as quickly, died, leaving a grey sensation in the air, insubstantial.
The husk twitched, gathered, knit together, stood up.
Two things faced each other. A grey wisp of smoke and a blunt, squat, armoured creature.
The armoured creature moved. Black legs tapped on the slate, more than before, four, six. Beetles swarmed over it. Something like eyes in the smooth head turned to look at the other figure.
The smoke figure quivered. It leaned to the huge armoured figure.
“Brassbuck?”
The voice was softer than the sound of distant waves breaking.
The black figure clattered a reply, no words.
The smoke figure shuddered.
“Not Slowin. Not any more. New name. Soon. Come, follow.”
The wraith moved away, drifting, deliberate, following the lines of beetles. Brassbuck stood a moment, her head tilted to one side, listening to the sounds of the beetles’ legs.
She imitated the noise.
“Takkabakk, takkabakk.”
She seemed pleased with the sound.
The wraith passed over the ruined wall.
Brassbuck clattered after it.
“Where are we going?” she clacked. |
Flaxfold was asleep in the chair,
her face to the window, when she was woken by the noise.
She put her hand to her mouth, yawning. Outside, the night was just slipping away, leaving trails of mist over the fields. Less than an hour and the sun would break over the line of hedgerow. Till then, the world hesitated between night and day.
Flaxfold shook her head, blinked and stretched. She smoothed her smock with small hands and looked at Bee.
The noise came again. Not a moan. Just the sound of air forced out with pain. Flaxfold felt the moss. It was dry. She started to move to the bucket to get the wet cloth, then she put her hand back. The moss was cool and dry.
“Bee?”
Flaxfold put her face near to Bee’s.
“Can you hear me?”
She felt the movement of air from the girl’s mouth. Strong now. Foul-smelling. Greasy and damp. Flaxfold pursed her lips in disgust and drew back.
She laid her hand on Bee’s shoulder. The moss cracked and fragmented. She took her hand away. Moss had clung to it, pulling away from the skin of the girl. She examined the place where the moss had been. The skin was shiny, puckered, not like a wound, but a scar.
“Bee?”
The girl shifted. The first time she had moved for days. More of the moss crumbled, fell away. Flaxfold lifted the shards from around Bee, brushed them away, cleared spaces. Everywhere the moss had been the skin was dry and healed. In some places, the fire had not touched her and the skin was pink and clear. In others it was smooth as a laurel leaf, in others, shiny and creased. There were patches where the moss still clung, still damp. Flaxfold worked around those, leaving them to continue the healing.
She had uncovered just over half of Bee when the girl shuddered, her arms pressed close to her body, her fists clenched and she coughed. Flaxfold leaned over, put her hand to her cheek. Bee gasped, coughed again, a deep, grating cough that shook her whole body. She dragged in a painful breath, held it for a second, then she vomited smoke out of her mouth and nose. It rose above her, a snot-green shape. Flaxfold jumped to her feet and backed away from it. It gathered to a clump, formed into a slug-like shape, slid down onto the bed, slipped to the floor and found its way to the fireplace.
Flaxfold put her hand to her mouth and nose. The stench was making her throat tight. She fought to stop herself throwing up. The creature shuddered, then exploded, half into the room before it was sucked up the chimney and was gone.
Flaxfold hurried to Bee. She held her hand.
“Are you all right?”
Bee’s breathing was regular now. Flaxfold put her face to her lips. Her breath was strong, sweet and steady. The woman hesitated, then peeled the moss from Bee’s face.
When she saw it her lips made a tight line. She held her breath. She found the wet cloth and dabbed it on Bee’s cheeks, her forehead.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right. You’re better now. Ssshhh. It’s fine.”
Bee opened her eyes. Flaxfold smiled. She closed her eyes again and made a small noise.
“Does it hurt?”
Bee nodded.
“That will go away. In time. I can help that.”
Bee turned her head away while Flaxfold removed as much of the moss as was left and would come free. When there were only a few patches, clinging to skin that had yet to heal, she covered Bee with a fresh sheet she had washed and dried with no starch, so there would be nothing to rub against the skin. Bee’s hand had relaxed. Flaxfold discovered a small iron seal, shaped like a bird. She put it carefully on the table.
“It’s fine,” she said. “You’re doing well. I’ll fetch you something to eat.”
She turned away from Bee and, unable to prevent herself, her mouth moved, silently speaking, “Oh, you poor thing. You poor thing.”
Bee heard the door close, then drifted, searching for a place where the pain was less.
A rabbit broke through the hedgerow, pricked up his ears and hopped clear on to the road. Halfway across he stumbled on a black line that moved with relentless determination. The beetles swarmed over the rabbit. It kicked out, tried to run off, tumbled over, its legs flailing. A beetle burrowed into its eye. The rabbit screamed. Less than a minute later, the clump of black beetles straightened out again and rejoined the column, leaving the stripped bones in the middle of the road.
Cabbage didn’t like getting his hands dirty so it was odd that he enjoyed the blacksmith’s shop as much as he did.
On his first visit Cartford had allowed him to stand and watch and to ask questions. The second time the blacksmith had made Cabbage stoke up the fire and work the bellows.
“Once is a visitor,” he said. “Twice is an assistant.”
It wasn’t hard work stoking the fire, but it was hot. The fuel was charcoal, which was light to shovel on. It was dusty though and soon his hands and clothes were streaked with black. It burned with a sweet fragrance that reminded Cabbage of coppices and woods.
On the third visit Cartford allowed Cabbage to hold a length of iron in the forge and hammer it on the anvil.
“You’d better put this on,” he said, tying a leather apron round Cabbage. That won’t burn if the sparks fly.
The sparks did fly from the struck metal. Cabbage was so excited that he couldn’t stop himself from making more sparks fly from his own finger ends to dance with them in the light of the forge.
“That’s enough of that,” Cartford warned him. “Magic doesn’t mix well with this work.”
Which reminded Cabbage that Perry had never heard the end of Flaxfield’s story about the first ever magic. And that reminded him that he still didn’t know what had happened to his friend. And that made him sad.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Cartford leaned against a bench. He flicked the handle of a vice.
“Magic is forbidden in blacksmith’s shops,” he said. “Even play magic like your stars. Especially real magic.”
“Why’s that?”
Cabbage’s iron had grown dull. It was still hot so he held it in the bucket of water as Cartford had shown him. The man nodded approval. The bench was worn and chipped, as old perhaps as the shop itself.
“If I tell you will you promise never to tell anyone else?”
Cabbage nodded.
“It just is,” he said.
“What?”
Cartford laughed.
“Let’s get that iron hot again,” he said. “And you can tell me what you’re going to do next.”
“He’s coming with me,” said Flaxfield.
“How long have you been there?” asked Cabbage.
“Long enough,” said Cartford. He scraped his hands down the front of his own apron. “Welcome.” He shook hands with the wizard. “No danger of you working any magic here, is there?”
Flaxfield glanced at Cabbage before he answered.
“You should keep a civil tongue, blacksmith,” he said.
Cartford laughed.
“Don’t blame the boy. I’ve been watching you and it’s obvious. You’re not keeping your magic to yourself to stop any more harm coming us this harvest. Don’t interrupt.”
Flaxfield gripped his staff till his hand turned white.
“You’ve lost your magic. And now you’re taking your boy off to find it again. Isn’t that right?”
“We’ll bid you good day,” said Flaxfield. “Come on, Cabbage.”
“Say goodbye to my daughter before you go,” said Cartford. “She’s grown fond of you. Do you hear me?”
Cabbage had been hanging up his leather apron. He looked at Cartford now.
“Yes, you. Don’t be so surprised. I’m quite fond of you myself.”
Cabbage blushed and wiped a smear of charcoal dust onto his cheek.
“Now then, shake hands and say, meet again soon.”
Cabbage did as he was told.
“And Flaxfield,” Cartford smiled at him. “We’ll part friends as well. I’m fond of you, too, you old wizard.”
They shook hands.
“And so’s Dorwin, so make you sure you say a good farewell to her.”
“We’ll be gone before the harvesters get back from the fields,” said Flaxfield. “Say my goodbyes.”
“I will.”
Cabbage lingered longest outside Bee’s room. No one but Flaxfold, Vella and Pellion was allowed in.
He spoke through the door in a low voice that would hardly carry.
“Goodbye,” he said. “We’re going at last. I’ll make sure Slowin pays for this. I promise.”