by Dan Davis
‘What would you know about it!’ she said, stepping forward. ‘You don’t know anything. Your biggest problem is your precious mother and father have to give up too much of their wheat. You only just got here. You don’t know what it’s like in here.’
‘Steady on, Weaver,’ said Keeper. Burp hissed at her.
‘Shut your fat face,’ she spat at Keeper.
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Archer, controlling his own anger before it rushed out. ‘Look. I am sorry you’re so angry. But we can’t stand around arguing, we have to get out of here quickly or else we’re all done for. Put your knife away. If you want you can stab me after we all escape together. Right?’
Weaver looked like she was going to punch him. Instead she shoved her knife back into her belt and crossed her arms.
‘That’s a relief,’ Keeper said. ‘I’m glad that’s sorted. Now, before we get on I just have to feed Burp a few cabbages,’ said Keeper, reaching into the sack.
‘No,’ Archer cried. ‘Wait.’
Keeper looked at him, surprised. ‘You really don’t like cabbages, do you,’ he said.
‘You can’t feed him,’ Archer said. He explained to Weaver. ‘When he has eaten a cabbage he will shoot fire from his mouth. Look at all these huge great bolts of cloth all around the room. He might set fire to them. We would all go up with it.’
‘He’s right, you idiot. You can’t have a fire in here,’ said Weaver. ‘Are you totally mad, or something?’
‘Fine,’ said Keeper. ‘Sorry, Burp, you’ll have to wait.’
Burp hung his head, hissed and lay down at Keeper’s feet.
‘Hold on a moment,’ Weaver said. ‘How come I get the worst punishment?’ She pointed at Keeper. ‘You got to look after a dragon. A real fire breathing dragon for a friend.’
Keeper grinned. ‘That’s right.’
She pointed at Archer. ‘And you were supposed to be a baker. I love that fresh bread that we get. That would have been a nice job. Did you get a nice fire down in the kitchen? That’s nice, working by a warm fire all day, where it’s dry. I am up here in the cold and the dark. That’s not fair. No matter what I tried to do.’
‘Let’s go on then,’ said Archer. ‘Onward and upward.’ He prepared to go up the chimney yet again, eager to be off.
A voice shouted down the chimney. Archer jumped in surprise.
‘I can hear you,’ the voice called. ‘I can hear you all down there talking. I can hear you perfectly clearly, you know.’
‘Oh no,’ Keeper cried. ‘It’s the Alchemist.’
Writer
‘I am not the Alchemist!’ the voice shouted.
‘Of course it’s not the Alchemist,’ Archer said to Keeper. ‘It sounds like a girl’s voice.’
‘He is quite correct,’ the girl’s voice said, echoing. ‘I am a girl. And I can hear you all talking down my chimney. Please do come up here. It would be really wonderful to have some company.’
They all ran over to the fireplace. Burp shuffled behind. They crowded into the dark space and looked up. There was a little square of blue-white light up there with a person’s head in silhouetted in it.
Whatever the room was up there, it was filled with sunlight.
‘Hello, girl’ called Keeper. ‘I’m Keeper.’
‘I know. I heard you talking,’ the girl said. ‘Clear as day. There’s also a Weaver and an Archer. And did you say you had a wagon?’
‘You’re nearly right,’ Archer called up. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Writer,’ she said.
Weaver tutted. ‘Another easy job,’ she muttered.
‘Well you had best stand back, Writer,’ Archer called, ‘I’m going to shoot up an arrow into your room. Try to tie the rope off to something secure, please. Make sure you stand well back, right out of the way.’
‘Very well,’ called the girl named Writer. ‘I’m going back.’
She really has a lovely voice, Archer thought, as he shot an arrow right through the square of light.
The rope flew up after it. The arrow twanged into something up in the room and then Writer tied it off up there and shouted down that it was safe to climb up.
One by one they climbed the rope. Weaver went first and she went very quickly indeed, climbing as fast as a squirrel.
Keeper struggled and Archer went behind ready to help if need be. Although he was worried that if Keeper fell he would take Archer down with him, he still had a feeling Keeper may need some encouragement.
‘I can’t do this,’ Keeper said when he was nearly to the top. ‘I need to get down.’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Archer up into the gloom. ‘You can do it, Keeper, just a bit further.’
He pulled himself up the rope right under Keeper. He put his shoulder against Keeper’s backside.
‘Get up there,’ Archer said through gritted teeth and pushed up with his shoulder, pulling on the rope.
‘Stop pushing me,’ Keeper said. ‘You’ll make me fall.’
‘I will stop,’ said Archer. ‘When you start moving again.’
‘My arms are too tired,’ Keeper said. ‘I’ll go down and then you can pull me up again.’
‘You’re closer to the top than the bottom,’ Archer said, speaking with his head right next to Keeper’s backside. ‘It will be harder to go down without falling than it will to just get to the top so just move it.’
‘It’s too hard,’ Keeper said. ‘Just let me rest here a while longer.’
Archer’s own arms were shaking with the strain.
‘If you don’t get up there right now the Alchemist might find us. Who knows what he might do,’ he said, trying to think of the worst possible thing that could happen to Keeper. ‘The Alchemist might take Burp away from you. Might lock you up apart from each other.’
Keeper did not say or do anything for a moment.
Then he started climbing again. He climbed right to the top without another word. Archer watched as the girls at the top helped Keeper through the little square of white-blue light.
Archer pulled himself up after him.
When Archer climbed out it was into a bright room. It was so bright that it hurt his eyes.
And he came face to face with Writer.
She was a tall girl, much taller than Archer. Probably a bit older too. She had huge bright eyes and a friendly smile. Her tunic was a vivid blue and she had long yellow hair that was quite tangled but still lovely.
She smelled and looked very clean, unlike he was. In fact, she smelled like the swift-running High Sweetwater after a spring rain.
Archer tried to stop staring at her.
‘Thank you for inviting us up,’ he said to her after a moment, very aware of how covered with soot he was. ‘Now let’s get Burp up here.’
‘He’s not really a dragon, is he?’ Writer said to Archer.
‘Seriously,’ Keeper said to her, breathing heavily. ‘He really, really is.’ His shiny face a bright crimson.
‘Course it’s a dragon,’ said Weaver, her arms crossed. ‘Don’t you know anything?’
Together, they heaved up Burp in no time at all. They helped the poor little dragon over the edge and up into Writer’s room.
‘It truly is a dragon,’ Writer said, staring at Burp. Keeper grinned, his arm around his friend’s long neck. Burp growled and nuzzled into Keeper’s armpit, his tail flexing back and forth.
Archer looked around, blinking at the brightness of the light and blowing on his sore palms.
The room was completely different to the others in the tower. There were huge great bookshelves round most of the circular wall. The books were colourful, leather bound things. Archer had only seen one or two books before in his whole life and yet here there were hundreds. Perhaps even thousands.
Not only upon the shelves. There were tables here and there about the room and they too were covered in stacks of books and piles of scrolls.
Archer had never seen the like of it.
The
sunlight was so bright that it was overwhelming.
‘How come you get a window?’ Weaver said, balling her hands into fists by her side. ‘An actual window. Everyone one of you has it better than me.’
She was right. Over on the opposite side of the room there was a very narrow slit in the wall. It was no wider than the length of a finger but as tall as a grown up.
In front of the window was a huge high table that was piled up with sheets and rolls of paper and lots of ink pots and long white quill pens with a high stool in front of it.
‘This is definitely the best room,’ Archer said.
‘Where do those stairs go?’ Keeper asked.
Archer looked where he was pointing. There was a very steep stone staircase running up along the side of the wall between two bookcases.
At the top was a trapdoor, set into the ceiling.
‘What’s up there?’ Archer said.
‘Oh,’ Writer said. ‘We cannot go through there. That is the Alchemist’s study.’
Keeper cried out and threw his arms about Burp’s neck.
Burp hiss-growled in his throat.
Archer took his bow from his back, pulled out an arrow and placed it on the string. Weaver picked up a heavy book from a nearby table and brandished it like a weapon.
Writer raised her hands. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘He so very rarely descends the stairs.’
‘You speak to him?’ Weaver asked. ‘You actually get to speak the Alchemist?’
‘Not often,’ she said, shrugging. ‘The normal procedure is he flings upon the door without warning. He stomps down the steps. Then he slaps down the papers I am to copy upon my desk and leaves without a word.’ She sniffed. ‘He is extremely rude.’
‘You have it so easy, love,’ Weaver said. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’
Writer raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
‘How did you come to be here?’ Archer asked. ‘How were you taken?’
‘Well—’ Writer started but Weaver cut her off.
‘You’re his daughter, aren’t you,’ said Weaver. ‘Come on, admit it.’
‘What?’ Writer looked shocked. ‘No, of course I am not. I am a prisoner here. I just always wanted to do magic. I knew I should not do it but one day I came to the Tower to ask the Alchemist if he would show me how to do spells. Instead, he did a spell on me. He magicked me inside the Tower and told me to copy out these spells and books and recipes for him every day. I have to write and write these words out, exactly as they are. Book after book. Scroll after scroll. My fingers are stained black from the ink. I have terrible strain in my wrists and hands.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Keeper asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Writer said. ‘It seems like forever.’
‘A likely story,’ said Weaver.
‘Why would you doubt her?’ Archer said. Weaver was incredibly annoying. ‘It’s obviously what the Alchemist does, isn’t it? The stories were true. He captures children from the Vale and forces us to work for him.’
Weaver shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is, I’ve been all over the Vale. I have been to Bures and Morningtree. And I never saw this girl before in my life,’ Weaver said. ‘In fact, I never saw any of you before. And I knew all the children in the whole Vale.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ Archer said.
‘You can’t have known everyone,’ said Keeper.
Weaver spun round to glare at him. ‘And why not?’
‘Well,’ Keeper said, looking down. ‘We’re all from the Vale and you don’t know any of us, do you.’
‘You’re so stupid,’ Weaver yelled, making Keeper jump.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Archer said, in a furious whisper. ‘What’s wrong with you? The Alchemist is just up those stairs, isn’t he?’
They all glanced up at the trapdoor.
‘If he comes down here then we’re done for,’ Archer said.
Weaver crossed her arms but did not say anything more.
‘Right, then,’ Archer said. ‘We need to get out of here. And it looks like the only way out is up those stairs and through that door. Does everyone agree?’
They all did.
‘So what we have to do is go up there,’ Archer said. ‘No matter if the Alchemist is there or not.’
‘What do you expect to do if he is there?’ Writer asked.
‘Shoot him full of arrows,’ said Keeper, grinning. ‘Right, Archer?’
‘No,’ said Archer, the thought of it was disturbing. ‘No, I couldn’t do that, I don’t think.’
‘Typical,’ said Weaver, shaking her head.
‘If he’s there,’ Archer continued, ‘we will have to sneak by him.’
‘Sneak by him?’ said Weaver, sneering. ‘Just sneak by the Alchemist? Do you think you are a mouse? How would sneaking work? Your plan is that you hope that the Alchemist is blind? And deaf too? I bet you that he ain’t a blind and deaf Alchemist. He’s probably got more eyes and ears than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘That is enough,’ Writer said, talking over her. ‘You are not helping anything, are you. Have you got a better idea? I suppose you believe we should squeeze out of the window and fly away?’
She was taller than all of them and although Weaver was fierce and forceful, Writer seemed very sure of herself and stood her ground.
Weaver crossed her arms. She looked like she was ready to punch someone but she did stop speaking.
‘Thank you,’ Writer said. ‘So what is the plan, Archer?’ She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling like morning sunlight on the dew.
‘That was my plan,’ Archer said, his heart racing just a little from Writer’s smile. ‘Let’s go up, peek through and if the Alchemist isn’t there we keep going.’
‘Keep going to where?’ asked Weaver.
‘To wherever comes next,’ Archer said.
‘What if he is there?’ Keeper asked.
‘Yeah,’ Weaver said.
‘I don’t know,’ Archer said. ‘What else can we do? We have to go on, don’t we? We can’t go back. We must go onwards.’
‘Onwards and upwards,’ said Keeper. ‘Me and Burp are with you, Archer.’
‘I’ve always wanted to get out,’ Writer said. ‘As long as I have been here. I was just afraid of what the Alchemist would do if he caught me.’
‘Exactly,’ said Weaver.
Writer ignored her. ‘But now you are all here, it makes me feel less afraid. He may still catch me but at least I will not be alone. That makes it significantly less frightening.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Keeper, his arm around Burp’s neck.
‘Let’s go then,’ said Archer. ‘I’ll go first. Keeper you help Burp up the steps. Everyone be as quiet as you can. No talking, no bumping into things.’
‘That means you,’ Weaver said to Keeper as they lined up at the bottom of the steep stone steps. ‘Try to step quietly. Your footsteps are like thunder.’
‘I can’t help it that I’m so heavy,’ Keeper said. ‘Grandma says I’m like a badger.’
Archer looked up the steps at the trapdoor in the ceiling that lead to the Alchemist’s study. He gripped the wood of his bow, feeling the familiar smoothness of it.
‘Everyone be quiet,’ he said. ‘This is the most dangerous thing any of us have ever done. One wrong step and we might all get killed.’
He looked at them all in turn.
Keeper swallowed.
Writer nodded.
Weaver scowled.
Burp rumbled.
‘Here we go.’
Don’t Touch Anything
He climbed.
Archer glanced behind him. Burp’s claws clicked on the stone steps and but Keeper helped him up.
At the top, Archer placed his hands on the trapdoor and pushed upwards.
It moved.
He had not really expected it to be unlocked. He felt worried now.
But he had to take his own advice. There was no going back.
Carefully, he eased the door upward, bit by bit. The wood was huge, old and heavy and he strained to move it.
Archer expected the hinges to screech or for the Alchemist’s booming and terrible voice to cry out.
He inched it up until he could just about peek through.
No shout so far.
Bright sunlight shone through.
As the crack between the stone and the door widened the light streamed in even more. There was so much light. More than even Writer’s room below with her tiny narrow slit of a window.
It was so bright that he was sure it opened onto the roof of the Tower. Surely, the door must lead to the outside world and to freedom.
But when the gap was big enough for him to poke his head through, his eyes adjusted to the glare. It was another room after all.
The bright daylight was streaming in through big glass windows all around the wall.
That was very strange. There were no windows to be seen from the outside. The Tower, whether you were up in the hills or right underneath it, was made from smooth, featureless stone blocks from bottom to top.
Invisible windows. Alchemist magic.
Like Writer’s room, it was full of furniture everywhere. Tables, chairs, and desks scattered about all over. Only, where Writer’s furniture was normal and plain, this stuff was very ornate. The few bits he could see from down by the floor were covered in carvings and varnished with rich browns and deep reds.
It was like the stuff they had in the Bures Guildhall, only much finer and older.
There were some big chairs with high backs and over to one side. They were covered in carvings of leaves and trees interwoven with strange creatures.
A huge great bed with curtains round it to keep the breeze out at night was on the other side of him. The curtains around the bed were drawn back. Archer could not get a good look from as low as he was. But the Alchemist did not seem to be in the bed.
Everywhere else about there were piles of scrolls and stacks of books, all higgledy-piggledy. Stacked about on surfaces here and there were many glass jars with odd things floating in them. And glass tubes running between them and there were bottles in all different colours and shapes. A few were bubbling lazily. Like brewing beer did.