Fireborn Page 4

  Flaxfield stood and waved.

  “Is it memmonts?” said Cabbage.

  “Over here,” shouted Flaxfield. “They can’t hear us, run off and get them, boy. Quickly. Tell them Flaxfield wants to say hello.”

  Cabbage looked sadly at the food. He’d only just got started and didn’t like to leave it. But an apprentice knows better than to argue with his master. And he’d never seen a memmont before. He ran off in the direction of the figures, swearing silently. It was the hottest part of the day and he was still hungry. Soon he was sweating and short of breath. And he didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  One spell. One simple spell would have been enough to attract their attention, make them turn around and come towards him. If he’d been on his own, Cabbage would probably have risked it. But not with Flaxfield looking on. “No loose magic, boy,” Cabbage muttered, in Flaxfield’s voice, as he heard it day after day.

  He called out. The heavy afternoon air sucked in his words and they didn’t carry.

  “Hey! Over here!”

  The memmonts, four of them, with two roffles, carried on. It would take for ever to catch them up.

  Cabbage put his finger into his mouth and blew.

  Now Cabbage had never been able to whistle. He had practised for hours.

  Flaxfield could whistle with his lips pursed, a soft, tuneful sound. He could make a shrill whistle, so high it almost made your ears hurt. And he could make that special whistle, the best one, with four fingers (two from each hand) in his mouth, that carried for miles.

  Flaxfield was sitting in the shade of the tree, eating their lunch, while a hungry, angry Cabbage was racing over a bumpy field, in blazing sun, shouting at memmonts which couldn’t hear him.

  He looked over his shoulder. Flaxfield had his back to him, lifting a bottle of water to his lips. It was too much for Cabbage.

  He plucked a stem of high grass, heavy with ripe seeds, put it to his lips and made a whistling spell. Flaxfield would never know.

  The whistle sped silently through the air, like an arrow. It hovered over the memmonts and the roffles, then burst open in a shrill explosion.

  They stopped, turned and looked at Cabbage, who waved and beckoned them over.

  The rear memmont, the one nearest to Cabbage, trotted towards him, then bounded forward, then ran at full speed. As it approached it began to change, from a shy creature the size of a small goat, into the biggest dog that Cabbage had ever seen. Its head became longer and sharper, teeth yellow and jagged. The creature’s legs were slender, yet strong. Its tongue lolled to one side.

  Cabbage turned and ran back to Flaxfield. He was still running when the huge dog leaped on to his back. Cabbage fell forward. The hard ground knocked the wind out of him. He banged his face against the earth. The last thing he heard was the savage growl. The last thing he felt was the warm saliva on his neck as the dog’s head jabbed down at him, mouth wide, teeth bared. |

  Flaxfield prodded the dead memmont

  with the toe of his shoe. Cabbage had never seen his face so hard, so set. The wizard leaned on his staff and looked at the roffle.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Megawhim shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “Cabbage,” said Flaxfield, “tell us what happened. All of it.”

  Cabbage looked away, then looked back at them. The tall wizard, the two roffles, only half his size, with their back-packs shaped like squashed barrels. Megawhim was standing next to Flaxfield, arms crossed, looking Cabbage in the face. Megapoir was stroking the three roffles and drinking a beaker of apple juice. But Cabbage’s eyes kept going back to the dead memmont.

  It was his fault. The dead memmont. He had done it. He had killed a memmont and nearly got killed himself. He couldn’t speak.

  “Did you tie a donkey to a plum cake?” asked Megawhim.

  Cabbage shook his head.

  “Well, did you push a pig’s tail up your nose and sneeze a sausage?”

  Cabbage stared at the little figure.

  “No. Why would I do that?” He appealed to Flaxfield. “Why would I want to do that?”

  Flaxfield put his hand on the roffle’s shoulder.

  “Just let the boy tell us,” he said.

  Cabbage started to speak, then coughed, stopped, tried again and began to choke. The words were fighting not to be spoken.

  Megapoir trotted over and handed him the beaker.

  “Try this.”

  “Thank you.”

  Megapoir trotted back to the memmonts, sat on his barrel and stroked them again.

  “I made a spell,” said Cabbage. He told the story to Megapoir, ignoring the looks of the others. It seemed easier. The smaller roffle nodded and smiled at him, helping him to go on.

  “I was hot and tired and couldn’t run. I got a stitch. You couldn’t hear me. And I was hungry. He,” Cabbage pointed at Flaxfield without looking at him, “was eating all our food. So I made a whistle spell.”

  Megapoir nodded.

  “I can’t whistle,” said Cabbage. “So I had to make a spell.”

  “I can whistle,” said the roffle. He put his fingers to his mouth and proved it. Very loud.

  “That’ll do,” said Megawhim. “You’ll have a cow with a blue hat and a piece of fish coming if you’re not careful.”

  “Anyway, I made the whistle, then the memmont started to run at me, then it turned into a dog and I ran away. I think it jumped on me,” said Cabbage. “The next thing I knew, I was here.”

  Here, was the courtyard of an inn. On three sides, a galleried cream and grey structure, on the fourth side a wide entrance with open gates, for horses and coaches. The floor was cobbled.

  “What happened to me?” Cabbage asked.

  “You were…” began Megawhim, but was interrupted by Megapoir.

  “You should have seen it,” he said.

  He bounced up and down on his barrel, the sides bulging.

  “The beast had its jaws open, wider than your head. It was going to snap it off.”

  He didn’t seem to notice Cabbage’s shudder.

  “There was all this drool dripping down on you. Then he,” the roffle pointed to Flaxfield, “stood up and pointed his staff at you both. The beast flew backwards, tumbling over and over, like a pine cone, and when it stopped, it was a memmont again.”

  He paused, out of breath.

  “Dead, of course,” he added, his voice lower and his eyes wet.

  A memmont licked his face. Megapoir made a small smile and put his head to the side of the memmont, breathing in its warm scent.

  “Then we brought you here,” said the other roffle. His voice was angry. “And what are we going to do now? Eh? Are we going to make a cat’s cartwheel, or shall we sing a song of sandwiches?”

  Cabbage put his hand to the cobbles. Cold, smooth, with rough mortar between.

  “It was my fault,” he said. “It’s my fault the memmont’s dead.”

  “Yes,” said Megawhim. “Your fault.”

  “Yes,” said Flaxfield. “I’m afraid it was your fault.”

  He crossed the courtyard and took Cabbage’s arm.

  “It won’t do to pretend. But there’s nothing that can’t be put right.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cabbage.

  “I know you are,” said the wizard. “I know. We’ll sort it out. Don’t worry. Here, young’un,” he said to Megapoir. “Can you get my apprentice something to eat and drink? He went without his lunch. We can’t have that.”

  Megapoir jumped up and ran over to them.

  “Can I get him some food?” he said. “Can a fat dog find a pork chop? Can a squirrel shave a salmon? Come on.”

  He grabbed Cabbage and pulled him towards the inn door.

  “But what happened?” asked Cabbage. “How?”

  “He’ll tell you,” said Flaxfield. He gave the roffle a hard stare. “He seems to tell a good story. He’ll tell you all about it.”

/>   “What will you do?” asked Cabbage. “What about the memmont?”

  For all his talk about running an inn, Cabbage had hardly ever been inside one. When he travelled with Flaxfield they usually stayed at the houses of people he knew. Flaxfield seemed to know people everywhere, and they were always glad to see him. Cabbage was used to the same questions, the same exclamations of interest.

  “This your new apprentice Flaxfield?”

  “Only small, isn’t he? Was his grandmother a roffle?”

  “What happened to that nice girl was your apprentice last time you called?”

  “Does he always eat this much? Where does he put it?”

  “Cabbage? Why do you call him Cabbage? Oh, I see?”

  “Can you do a bit of magic for me, lad? I’ll give you some more bacon if you make me a set of sky hooks.”

  “Did he really eat all of that?”

  They were always welcoming, but he liked it best when Flaxfield didn’t know anyone and they had to stay at an inn.

  Cabbage liked rooms with many tables and chairs, settles by the fire, bottles of wine and casks of beer. He liked the beehive of conversation, the laughter, the door opening and closing as people came and went. He liked the stairs up to a strange bedroom. He liked to be in the midst of people without being with them. In someone’s home, you had to make an effort, talk when they talked to you, smile at their jokes, be amused when they teased you, eat whatever they gave you whether you liked it or not. In someone’s home, you were a guest. In a good inn, you were in your own home. If you didn’t like one conversation you could move away and join another, or even sit on your own and watch the others, listening in to snippets.

  “What’s this inn called?” asked Cabbage.

  He had to ask Megapoir twice because he was eating a meat pasty the first time and the roffle couldn’t understand him.

  “Sorry,” said Cabbage. “Shouldn’t talk with my mouth full, but I’m so hungry.”

  “The White Hart,” said Megapoir.

  The innkeeper pretended to tidy bottles and clean glasses. He never looked directly at them.

  Cabbage lowered his voice.

  “It’s not very nice, is it?”

  “Why are you called Cabbage?” asked Megapoir.

  “Why do all roffle names begin with Mega?” asked Cabbage, going a little red.

  “Mine doesn’t.”

  “It does. They all do.”

  The innkeeper came across to them.

  “Any more food?” he asked.

  The man was small, with arms and legs that didn’t seem to work with the rest of his body, like a doll made to the wrong measurements. His dark hair was short and combed close to his head. He smiled when he spoke to them.

  Cabbage picked up the last piece of pasty and then put it down again.

  “No, we’ve had enough, thank you,” he said.

  “Nice to see someone enjoying the food,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen with the dirty plate.

  “It wasn’t very fresh,” Cabbage whispered. “I’m still hungry.”

  “It’s not a good inn,” said the roffle. “Look. There’s no one here.”

  He sat back, put his hands behind his head and looked straight at Cabbage. “We never call here, usually,” he said.

  “Do you stay at inns a lot?”

  Cabbage admired his confidence and experience.

  “As often as a snail makes a kite in a farm cart. How old are you?”

  “Twelve,” said Cabbage. “What happened to the memmont?”

  The roffle leaned forward, his eyes newly bright with interest.

  “You did that. How did you do it? Why?”

  “I didn’t. Really, I didn’t. What do you do with memmonts anyway? Were they yours?”

  “No one owns memmonts. My dad and I were just collecting them, to take back.”

  “Is that your dad? I thought you … well, never mind. How old are you?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t count really. There are no years in the Deep World. No seasons. Not like seasons up top. I suppose I’m about twelve as well.”

  Cabbage grinned at him, pleased to discover the roffle wasn’t another grown-up after all.

  “We’re going to harvest,” he said. “I’ve never seen a memmont before. Or a roffle.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name. All roffles have names that are sort of the same.”

  The roffle looked over his shoulder, then back at Cabbage.

  “It’s Megapoir. But that’s only my name Up Top. Really, it’s Perry.”

  “Right. Can I call you Perry?”

  “Only when there’s no one else around. We have a lot of things we say and do Up Top that we don’t do in the Deep World.”

  “Why?”

  “To confuse people.”

  Cabbage didn’t understand this, but he nodded as though he did. He was just about to explain why he was called Cabbage when the door opened and Flaxfield and Megawhim came in. Perry gave Cabbage a warning look and Cabbage winked at him.

  “Beer,” shouted Flaxfield. “Two, please.”

  The innkeeper popped up straight away and poured two mugs of beer from a barrel on a shelf. Flaxfield watched him and waited till he had gone before he spoke again.

  “He appeared pretty quickly,” he said. “I wonder where he’s gone now?”

  Megawhim pulled up a chair and sat next to Perry.

  “We’ve buried the memmont,” he said.

  Perry nodded. His eyes filled with tears.

  The roffle looked at Cabbage.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  Cabbage was put off by his abrupt manner and the way he stared, as though challenging him to a fight. He glared back.

  “It was my fault. All right? I’m sorry.”

  He turned to Perry.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Flaxfield put his hand on Megawhim’s shoulder, but he spoke to Cabbage.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Forget about whose fault it was. It happened. We just want to know what went wrong.”

  “I told you outside.”

  Megawhim slapped his hand on the table.

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said.

  “Memmonts are such gentle creatures,” said Flaxfield. “It would take a very strong magic to turn one into that, into that…” he searched for the right word.

  “Into that wild beast,” said Megawhim. “It nearly killed you. I’ve never seen a memmont like that.”

  “It wasn’t a memmont,” said Perry. “Not when it got to Cabbage. Not any more.”

  “That it wasn’t,” said Flaxfield.

  “And it wasn’t going to kill him,” said Perry. “It was just standing there, dripping on him.”

  “It would have killed him,” said Megawhim. “Of course it would.”

  “Why didn’t it then?” Perry demanded.

  “Wait,” he held his finger to his lips. They listened. Flaxfield turned his mug upside down. The beer fell out, gathered into the shape of an ear and flew across the room. The door sprang open and the innkeeper fell through. The ear splashed against him and soaked his face and neck.

  “Did you want to hear something?” Flaxfield demanded.

  The innkeeper smiled at them. The same false smile he had given Cabbage when he took his plate away.

  “I was just coming to see if you wanted more beer.”

  As he spoke, the side of his face began to hiss and bubble. The skin blistered and peeled off. He screamed and held his hands to his face. The beer was burning him and eating into his flesh.

  Megawhim leaped to his feet.

  “That’s a bit harsh, Flaxfield,” he said.

  Perry and Cabbage stared at the man in his agony. Perry put his hands to his ears.

  “Stop it,” said Megawhim. “Stop it. He was only eavesdropping.”

  Flaxfield strode across the room. He seized the innkeeper’s hands and pull
ed them from his face. The man screamed louder.

  Cabbage had never seen Flaxfield look helpless before. The wizard stared at the ruined face.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  The innkeeper choked and gasped for breath.

  “He’s dying,” said Megawhim. “You’ve got to help him. You’ve got to make it stop.”

  “I can’t.” Flaxfield looked around, searching for an idea. “I can’t stop it.” |

  Cabbage and Perry filled a bucket of water

  from the pump and carried it over to pour into the stone trough for the memmonts to drink.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” asked Perry.

  Cabbage stepped back to stop the water from splashing on his feet.

  “I know I shouldn’t be,” he said, “but I’m hungry.” He pulled an apologetic face. “I mean, we just watched a man die, and I’ve never seen that before, and I should be shaken up, but really, I’m hungry.”

  “I couldn’t eat anything,” said Perry.

  “You could watch me.”

  They found the kitchen.

  “Why isn’t there anyone here?” asked Cabbage. “A cook, or someone? And no customers.”

  Perry opened cupboard doors and took out bread, butter, some eggs, a cold joint of mutton, half a cooked chicken, apples, a pie that had the edges of its crust missing where rats had nibbled it.

  “It’s not that much of an inn,” Perry reminded him. “And it’s afternoon. People will be at work, or travelling. It might get busy later.”

  He looked at the food, most of it stale and old. “I don’t suppose people eat here if they can avoid it.”

  Cabbage pushed the pie to one side, cut a slice of bread, buttered it and added a slice of mutton.

  They could hear muffled voices from the other side of the door. Flaxfield and Megawhim talking. Flaxfield didn’t seem to be saying much.

  “Flaxfield shouldn’t have killed him,” said Perry.

  Cabbage stopped chewing.

  Megawhim was shouting now. After a pause Flaxfield spoke quietly.

  Cabbage tried to swallow, chewed again. He spat the food into his open palm and threw it into the kitchen bin.

  “I thought you were hungry?”

  “I can’t eat this muck.”

  Megawhim appeared in the doorway.