Under Earth

by Ellen Renner

  She decided to tease him. “What would you do, Cloud? You just said you wanted to stay here forever!” Storm watched his expressions tumble and change as fast as the whirligigs.

  “Uh…”

  Fire shot into the air from somewhere a few paces ahead. Storm froze.

  “A Fire-witch! This should be good.” Cloud pushed eagerly through the crowd, towards the column of orange fire reaching towards the canvas rooftop. He didn’t hear her shout of protest. The rest of the crowd seemed to want to see the Fire-witch too. Storm found herself carried forward after Cloud as inexorably as a swimmer caught in a riptide. She clapped her left hand over the gold cuff hiding the scar on her right wrist. Surely it was all right. It wouldn’t be the Salamander’s assassin, just a witch come to make some money, like all the others in town.

  Walled by human bodies, Storm was pushed forward step by step. Cloud glanced back, grabbed her hand. “Careful we don’t get separated in this crush!” he shouted over the tumult of voices. In the distance, the Fire-witch’s audience cheered. The flow of bodies slowed. Cloud still held on to her as he pushed and shoved, dragging her with him.

  “Stop! This is close enough!”

  But he kept tugging. Only when they popped out into a small circle of space at the very front of the crowd did Cloud let go. He shouted in her ear: “We’re lucky to get this close!”

  In front of them was a chest-high platform constructed of bricks and stone. Children perched on their parents’ shoulders. Men, women and children munched street food and swayed and rocked in place to the sound of the drum beaten rhythmically by a man seated below the platform.

  The Fire-witch stood on the platform of bricks, a large open iron pot full of glowing, flickering coals on a stand beside her. She was thin and bony, long-faced with a wide mouth. She wore a long red silk tunic that reached nearly to her ankles. It was embroidered in gold with images of a salamander. Seeing it, Storm instinctively tried again to shrink away, but the crowd held her firm. She watched, mesmerised, as the Fire-witch fed the fire with a bundle of dried twigs, then dipped an iron flagon into the flames that shot up from the brazier.

  The witch lifted the flagon to her lips and drank fire, and the crowd screamed in delight and horror. Nauseated, Storm watched a red glow illuminate the skin and bone covering the woman’s mouth. The fire-gleam flowed down the witch’s throat and into her chest.

  The witch put down the flagon with a flourish, opened her mouth and spewed forth fire. The children in the crowd screamed. The witch whirled round twice, then tossed a thin bamboo oval high into the air. She spat out a thin streak of flame that shot into the air – an arrow made of fire! The hairs on the back of Storm’s neck rose as she saw the shaft of fire shoot skywards and strike the bamboo as it tilted mid-air and began to fall to earth. The oval burst into flames and fell on to the upturned faces of the crowd as snow-white ash.

  The glow inside the Fire-witch faded. Again, the woman whirled round and round until the bottom of her tunic bellowed out in circle of flowing red. She spread her arms and her long fingers fluttered.

  The witch spun to a stop, gathered another handful of twigs and flung them on the brazier. Flames shot into the air and divided into countless droplets, like raindrops of fire. The burning beads spun up out of the iron bowl into the air. They jumped on to the woman’s arms, shoulders and head, until she had a line of dancing flames sitting on her from fingertip to fingertip. She reached out her arms wide and – with a shriek of exultation – began to spin faster. The fire drops grew long, stretched thin, and twisted together until the woman and the flames she carried became one bending, twisting column of fire.

  The crowd bellowed with rapture and horror. Bile rose in Storm’s throat. Her heart hammered in her chest. She made herself look away from the platform and the human column of fire. And found herself gazing into the face of an old man who stood on the other side of the platform. White hair sprouted from his head, seeming to protest at being tidied into a topknot. He had a round, wrinkled orange face, like a persimmon. His nose was wide and flat, and his eyes nearly as large as those of the cling-monkey that sat on his shoulders.

  She had found him!

  As the old man looked into her eyes, the smell of ash and charcoal was swept away by the cool fragrance of the high jungles. For a five-breath, it felt like she was once more standing on Yanlin Mountain, looking out to the sea rolling on to the harbour beach.

  The cling-monkey began to jump up and down. Even over the crowd’s applause she heard its shriek of alarm.

  Storm heard the voice of the Tortoise in her head: Beware the fire within and without!

  Her eyes jerked back to the performance. The woman had stopped spinning; the flames dwindled, separated. The Fire-witch stood, arms aloft, a hundred tiny red drops dancing in her hair, her clothes, her hands. The flames began to flicker. One by one, they went out.

  The air itself felt queasy.

  Storm looked for the old man. He and the monkey had disappeared. She didn’t try to fight the panic: it was too strong. She twisted round, tried to push through the wall of bodies, failed. Storm turned back to face the witch, her heart thudding faster than the drum’s beat.

  The drummer bashed out a crashing crescendo that made the subsequent silence shocking. “Show your appreciation!” he cried, casting down his drumstick and picking up a large bowl, which he held out to the nearest members of the audience. Coins showered into the bowl. Cloud threw a handful of coppers, hollering at the top of his voice. People stamped their feet and called out to the Fire-witch, who began a series of regal bows.

  Straightening from a bow, the witch glanced around the crowd. Her eyes skimmed over Storm, blinked, returned. The Fire-witch’s gaze locked on to Storm and her face darkened with a look of pure enmity. Death danced in the woman’s eyes.

  Storm lurched backwards, trying once more to find a way through the human wall, once more failing. She watched in horror as the witch whirled to the brazier, grabbed up red-hot coals…

  The air quivered, stank. There was a deep groaning, cracking sound, and the ground shifted beneath Storm’s feet. She felt sudden, too-familiar nausea. Earthquake!

  People around her screamed and began to shove. The old man with the monkey was suddenly standing in front of her, pushing her backwards into a space that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago. “Run!” he commanded.

  She stood frozen and stared at him, thinking that his voice was remarkably youthful for such an old man. Screams filled her ears. She smelled something burning. The ground shook.

  The monkey leapt from the old man’s shoulders on to hers and clung to her, holding her around the neck. The warmth of its breath, the feel of its body shivering in terror, released her.

  There was just space enough to turn round and stagger away from the stage, the fire, the terrified people. Somewhere in the crowd behind her she heard Cloud shouting her name. The old man grabbed her hand and tugged her away, into the winding maze of streets that was Bellum Town. Still, she held on to Thorn’s boat.

  Storm’s legs wobbled, and she stumbled to a halt. The monkey clinging tightly to her neck scolded as she swayed, unsteady on her feet.

  Balance!

  “Did you speak?” She stared at the old man in wonder, remembering a different speaker, place and time.

  “I said, can you walk a bit further?”

  “Yes.” The dizzy spell was passing. “And thank you. You saved my life.”

  “Not I, the Tortoise. We must keep going. We are not safe yet.”

  The Tortoise! It had condemned her mother to death. How could she trust the spirit ever again? But her terror of the Salamander left her little choice. The Fire-witch would follow, would not rest until she was dead.

  The old man smiled with a warmth that made the knot of fear in Storm’s chest loosen, a bit. The cling-monkey muttered in Storm’s ear as she followed her rescuer into an unknown part of town.

  The brick-paved street became a dirt path. The last hou
se came and went and still they walked on, following a high wall covered in peeling plaster. The old man paused beside a tangle of vines cascading down the wall, and Storm saw a small door, half hidden beneath the foliage. Her rescuer pushed the door open, took her hand and led her into a shady garden.

  Vines twisted up trees and shrubs to form a green tent over her head. Storm breathed in the scent of honeysuckle and orange blossom. Unseen birds warbled. Bees muttered. Butterflies and dragon flies swooped and darted.

  Sensing a presence, Storm looked up into the wistful eyes of a three-toed sloth, hanging motionless from a tree branch just above her head. It seemed to be smiling … but then, sloths always looked like they were smiling. Beside it, the heavy coils of a snake looped over the same branch. The creature’s flat head pointed at her, bead-eyes watching, tongue tasting the air.

  “Tortoise?”

  I am here.

  A confusion of feelings bruised her mind. The Earth spirit had just saved her life. But…

  “You let Dain die!” Storm wondered at her bravery. How dare she rebuke an Elemental spirit?

  When the ancient voice spoke again it was as unhurried as ever: I mourn with you. Dain was one of my most beloved Children. But if you had not saved Nim, Death would have come to Yanlin with monstrous force. A great catastrophe threatens, not just for Yanlin, but for every creature of the earth, sea or air.

  A sickly chill settled in Storm’s belly.

  Remember the tale your father told you – the story of how life was created. Fire was begat by the sun. It cares nothing for Life.

  “What does the Fire spirit want? Why is it trying to kill me?”

  She waited, but the voice was silent. When she looked up again, the sloth and snake had vanished.

  “I hate riddles!” Storm muttered.

  “I will ask you none, then,” said the old man, “but I cannot vouch for Scoundrel, who is a very disobedient soul.”

  The cling-monkey gave a chittering cry and leapt up to disappear into the maze of vines and branches overhead.

  “Touchy!” commented the old man.

  Storm gazed after the monkey, missing the warm weight of the creature on her shoulder. She asked the old man, “Why have you brought me here?”

  “To give you some refreshment. You have had a shock.” He beamed at her. “And because you are the Weather-witch of Yanlin. More, you are the Child of Three Elementals, for the Tortoise claims you also.”

  Storm felt the hairs on her arms lift and shivered. No one knew that. No one but the Elders of Yanlin and her cousin Minnow.

  “The Tortoise told me.”

  Of course: he was an Earth-witch. She watched him shuffle off towards a wooden hut just visible through the tree branches and wished the monkey would return. Slowly, she followed the old man.

  “Seat yourself!” He pointed to the mats scattered on the porch and Storm sank down on one, carefully placing her parcel beside her. She felt the toy boat through the wrapping, amazed to find that the old woman’s creation had survived intact.

  The Earth-witch bustled about the tiny yard in front of the hut. He plucked up a simple unglazed teapot from where it sat on top of a sunbaked stone and poured something into two cups. He put the cups on a tray and carried it into the back of the hut. Storm listened to him opening cupboards, clattering about, and realised that, for the first time since arriving on Bellum Island, she felt safe. If she listened long enough, perhaps the Fire-witch trying to kill her would become just a story she had made up to scare herself.

  Her rescuer brought the tray back to the porch and placed it on a mat. Then he lowered himself to sit beside her, with a creaking of joints that reminded her, wistfully, of Teanu.

  “Eat! Drink!” he ordered. “You will feel better afterwards.”

  The tray held a plate of tiny flat cakes along with the cups of amber liquid. She lifted the nearest cup. The contents looked and smelled like tea, but she had not seen him boil water. The old man took up a cup and slurped loudly.

  Storm took a tentative sip. “Delicious, thank you! But how did you brew tea without hot water?”

  “With the heat of the sun and enough time. I do not suffer Fire to enter my garden, which is why you are safe here.”

  “You have no cook fire?”

  “I eat fruit, nuts, vegetables and seeds. These biscuits, for example, are sun-dried.”

  “No rice?” Storm stared at the old man in horror.

  “Friends bring me steamed rice from time to time.” The old man grinned at her. “When I get the craving. Now, eat! We have not much time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “We have not met by accident, Storm. The Tortoise asked me to watch over you while you are on Bellum Island. You are in great danger. The Salamander grows impatient for your death.”

  Storm’s throat dried, and her mouthful of biscuit turned into a choking-dry lump. Cheeks bulging like a squirrel, she sieved tea into her mouth until she could swallow. And still choked. When Storm had finished coughing, she asked, “Why? Do you know why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “The Balance?”

  He nodded. “The Tortoise confirms it.”

  “But what has the Balance to do with me?”

  “Everything.” He gazed at her, his eyes dark with worry. “With you, with the Pact, with the Drowned Ones. Bellum Island is the focus of the Salamander’s ambitions. The danger lies here. The people of Bellum have been exploited by those whose ancestors grabbed power—”

  “You mean the Fifteen Families. Yes, there is something wrong here … the way the townsfolk look at members of the Pact.” She shivered. “And there is poverty that our Elders would not permit. I have seen children stealing! Dirty, hungry-looking children. How can such a rich island let its children starve?” She watched the old man, hoping he would explain, but his face was impassive. “My uncle told me Bellumers have stopped making.”

  “It is all true. The Fifteen grabbed power generations ago. They live only to consume, caring nothing for others. As a result, this island is about to descend into civil war. You must stop that happening.”

  “Me?” Storm stared, appalled. “How can I stop a war?”

  “You will have to find the answer to that riddle. You must be able to stop the conflict. That is why you were Chosen by Three.” He took a slurruping sip of tea with obvious relish, then said, “Do not look to the power of magic. You were granted magic to keep you alive, but the source of magic is the Elemental that granted it, not the human child who wields it. Magic can be taken back as easily as it was given. Your talents lie elsewhere.”

  Talents? Storm knew she had no talents, other than story-telling. The goldsmith had promised that this man would help her, but he was just confusing her. She was more scared than ever. “I told you, I’m no good at riddles!”

  “I hope very much that you are wrong.” He smiled. “Now you must go back to Talon’s house. We will meet again soon. Study the Pact. Find a solution,” said the old Earth-witch.

  “How do the Drowned Ones come into this?”

  He gazed at her, his expression patient. “A clever predator attacks when its prey is weakest.”

  Her face grew warm. It seemed so obvious.

  “Now it is time for you to go. It would be most unfortunate if the Pact found you here. I am too old to enjoy the prospect of playing hide-and-seek with their guards.” He got to his feet, with a renewed popping and creaking of old bones.

  “Wait!” Storm cried. “Tell me, is there an active rebellion? Should I contact them? How do I find them?” But the old man shuffled away as if she had not spoken. The monkey appeared, scampered after the Earth-witch and climbed him as if he was a tree, settling on one shoulder.

  Storm shoved the last of her biscuit in her mouth and followed. Instead of answering her questions, the old man peppered her with instructions as he led her towards the door in the wall.

  “Avoid Fire at all costs! The Salamander’s witch is powerful. I have h
eard tell of her, and you would do well to stay out of her way. Do not travel the town alone! When you have news – anything, no matter how trivial you think it – send me a message. I may not be here, but Scoundrel will always find me, if you cannot.”

  “Scoundrel?” Storm blinked in surprise. The cling-monkey was muttering mutinously under its breath and tugging at the old man’s beard.

  “Scoundrel will stay with you. If you have a message for me, tell it to the creature. He is far cleverer than he looks! And now, you must go.”

  The Pact’s guards caught up with Storm in a quiet residential street not far from the main square. “Mistress Storm, how nice to see you again.” Tolbar wasn’t smiling. She spotted Scoundrel and her not-smile became a glare. “What…” The guard pointed to the monkey, who had gone very still, “…is that?”

  “Scoundrel. He’s mine.”

  “It probably has vermin! You cannot take him back to the Master’s house!”

  “Then, unfortunately, I will have to return to my uncle’s ship.” Storm gave the guard a chilly smile. “Give my apologies to Talon, won’t you?”

  Tolbar drew a deep breath. They looked at each other with complete understanding. “Huh. Bring the creature if you must!” The woman motioned for her companions to form a phalanx around Storm. Tolbar scolded her all the way back.

  The guard would doubtless be reprimanded over today’s adventures. Storm felt guilty until the moment Tolbar ushered her into the guardhouse and she saw Cloud standing in a corner with his hands tied behind his back and a bruise on his left cheek.

  “What have you done to him?”

  “We’ve done nothing to him other than arrest him.”

  “He’s hurt!”

  “I got knocked down in the panic.” Cloud actually grinned. He was enjoying the whole thing! Why didn’t the Elementals Choose him? asked Storm’s mind-voice. He’d probably love having a Fire-witch trying to kill him!

  “Untie him. He’s my friend.”

  “So he says.” Tolbar made no move to release Cloud, who was watching the proceedings with wide-eyed interest. “The boy is a witness and a possible suspect.”