by Dan Davis
Archer leaned back on the bark and looked up. It was brightening up every moment now and the leaves were starting to show their colour, shimmering wet in the morning light.
It was quiet. There was not a breath of wind. The rain smelled fresh and the sodden earth smelled mouldy and wonderful.
I am free, he thought.
He looked at the others, all sleeping. Each of us could never have escaped by ourselves, he thought, it took all of us together to defeat the Alchemist and escape from the Tower. That thought seemed important somehow, he felt as though he was on the verge of thinking something profound but then before he could capture the thought it was gone.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement through the undergrowth. His heart was racing even before he knew what he was looking at.
A wolf.
Yellow eyes peered at him through a gap in the bushes. The fur on the top of its head was wet and spiky.
The memory of his dream blew back into his mind.
It had been no dream.
The wolf was motionless. Archer was not afraid, though his heart was racing from the exhilaration of seeing it standing there, so close to him. He always knew the Moon Forest was full of them. The forest was full of deer and other prey. But he never expected to see one this close. Then he remembered that in fact he had been much closer already.
Archer glanced at his friends. They slept on, oblivious. He looked back and the wolf, who had turned to look at Archer’s friends also, returned his gaze. The wolf was not afraid either. Not in the least bit afraid. It was obviously an intelligent, perceptive mind behind those eyes. Anyone could see that. It was like looking into another person’s eyes.
The wolf looked backward down its flank behind itself, and then, with a final glance at Archer, it headed off, feet padding on the sodden earth and leaves. Archer was startled to see another wolf follow right behind it, then another on the other side of him. Then a fourth. They all moved so quietly that there was barely any disturbance. A fifth and a sixth wolf went by, none of them so much as glancing at Archer or the others. All in all, he counted at least nine wolves.
There could well have been more but they moved so silently and there was so much shadow between the trunks in the morning light that it was difficult to be sure.
In no time at all, they were gone. As soon as they were out of sight, it was as if they had never been there at all. Archer would not have been surprised to find himself waking up once again and realising it had been another dream.
Instead, he went off for his morning wee and started collecting firewood. Archer scraped back the ashes and remains of the fire from the night and he started to build up a nest of twigs ready for this morning’s fire. Soon after the sun came up the others woke, groaning and shivering and rubbing their eyes.
Archer was going to tell them about the wolves but he hesitated. Normally he would have blurted out what he had seen right away but since he had learned to stop and think before he acted he thought carefully about what might happen if he told them. He knew that some people were afraid of wolves, even though they were in fact not dangerous at all and he did not want to add to anyone’s worries so he decided not to say anything about it.
‘Keeper,’ said Archer. ‘Can you start this fire, please?’
‘Love to,’ Keeper said, grinning and rubbing has hands together. He grabbed a sack and led Burp over to the fire.
‘I feel terrible,’ said Weaver, rubbing warmth into her arms and stamping her feet into the wet earth. ‘What’s for breakfast?’ she asked.
‘Cabbages,’ said Keeper. ‘There’s only a few left so get it while you can, I reckon. Shame they’re all a bit wet but they’re not rotten yet.’ He wiped a leaf on his tunic and peered at it. ‘Well, not too rotten, anyway. When they start to go they get this sort of slime stuff on the leaves and then you know you only got a day or so left to get them down you.’ He held the cabbage leaf out to Weaver.
Weaver frowned. ‘I’ll just go hungry, thanks,’ she said.
Keeper was already munching on his leaf. ‘You’d rather go hungry than eat a nice crunchy cabbage? I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘No one? No one wants any cabbage?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, more for me and Burp then.’
He fed Burp a cabbage, and some of Burp’s spit dripped on Keeper’s boot. It was all shiny and where it caught the light, it looked like a rainbow.
That’s strange, Archer thought.
The Keeper aimed Burp’s head at Archer’s pile of twigs and sticks and put his hand on the dragon’s back.
The dragonfire turned them into a roaring fire with a great whump. Most of the firewood was wet and therefore smoky but it dried them out a little and definitely warmed them up.
They stood round it, soaking up the heat. Burp seemed to like it too, even though he was already hot all over. Keeper stood so close he was practically standing in the fire.
‘Careful, do not burn yourself,’ Writer said to Keeper.
‘It’s fine,’ Keeper said, dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
Then his boot caught on fire.
Keeper on Fire
‘Look out!’ Writer cried.
‘Keeper,’ Archer shouted. ‘You’re on fire!’
‘Watch it, you idiot,’ Weaver said.
The fire engulfed his boot, the flames flicking up higher and higher.
Burp just stayed crouched and watched, the fire glinting in his eyes. He hissed quietly, tail swishing.
Keeper took two steps away from the fire, dropped to the ground, and rolled over in the wet leaves and mud, caking his boot in mulch. The fire on his boot went out immediately.
He jumped up, laughing and stood back over the fire, rubbing his hands together.
They all stared at him.
Wet mud with all leaves stuck on it covered his boot and lower leg. A little steam or smoke rose from it.
‘Keeper,’ said Writer, after a moment. ‘Are you well?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Probably got some of Burp’s spit on me, and then a spark from the camp fire ignited it.’ He shrugged. ‘Happens all the time.’
‘But,’ Archer said, confused. ‘Are you not hurt?’
‘Tiny little fire like that?’ Keeper shook his head. ‘Barely singed my boot, look. I don’t ever get badly burned, even when the fire touches me. Don’t know why.’
‘Oh,’ said Archer. ‘Well, I suppose that must be handy for an apprentice blacksmith.’
‘My grandma is like me, too,’ Keeper said. ‘She can hold an iron straight from the fire with her bare hands not get burned by it. Not even feel it, really.’
‘Do you mean to say your grandmother can hold a red hot iron straight from the fire?’ Writer asked.
‘As if that could be possible,’ said Weaver, shaking her head.
‘It’s true,’ Keeper said, surprised. ‘She does it in the forge all the time.’
‘If it is true then it is utterly fascinating,’ said Writer. ‘I wonder what the implications of that.’
While she was speaking, Keeper shuffled forward until he was standing right over the small fire again.
‘Keeper!’ Writer reached for him. ‘Be careful the fire does not set fire to your tunic.’
‘It’s fine,’ Keeper said, chuckling. ‘Fire always does what I tell it to do. Like, if I get set on fire really badly and there’s not no water or mud about then it doesn’t matter. I just tell the fire to stop and it goes away.’
‘Get set on fire often, do you?’ Weaver said.
‘No,’ Keeper said. ‘Well, I always stop it before it gets too bad. My mind takes over and makes the flames quiet again.’
‘What does that mean?’ Archer said, thinking about how the wind had seemed to be obeying him over the last few days. That could not really have been happening, could it? That had simply been a combination of chance and his over-active imagination.
‘I don’t know,’ Keeper said. ‘I just feel like me and fire is like this.’ Keeper put h
is palms together and interlinked his fingers.
Archer was about to tell them about how it had felt like he had spoken to the wind but then he noticed Writer had a strange look on her face. She seemed as if she was about to say something too. Archer waited for her to speak but she did not, and the moment passed. He also kept his mouth shut.
‘What do we do now, then, Archer?’ Keeper asked, adding a few more sticks to the fire. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Why are you asking him?’ said Weaver. ‘Why not ask me?’
Writer sighed. ‘You do not need to be like this all the time, you know,’ she said. ‘We do not have time for bickering and nonsense. We are cold and hungry and far from home.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Weaver said, almost growling she was so angry. ‘I’ll be how I want to be.’ She stuck out her jaw, glaring at Writer. ‘Just because you’re afraid of being outdoors, don’t have a go at me, love.’
Archer wanted to tell Weaver to shut up, too but that would have just made her angrier.
He took a deep breath and spoke calmly. ‘What do you think we should do, then, Weaver?’
‘Well,’ she said, relaxing ‘We have to get back to the Vale, I suppose?’ She looked at Archer. ‘You probably just want to go back to your house?’
Archer nodded. ‘Course, don’t you?’
Weaver shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’
‘And Writer was right,’ Archer said, looking at everyone’s tired faced. ‘We got blown a long way over the forest. The wind was howling really fast near the end. We were rushing over the trees. We must be a couple of days walk from home, most of it through the forest. Perhaps longer, I’m not sure.’
‘Two days!’ cried Keeper. ‘I can’t walk for two days. Burp can’t walk for two days. Burp can’t walk for two steps without hobbling on his chained up wings, can he. We’ve been stuck indoors in that Tower for I don’t know how long. Months, probably. My feet are sore just thinking about it.’
Burp growled and rubbed his scaly head against Keeper’s knee.
‘There, there, boy,’ Keeper whispered.
‘How else are we supposed to get back to the Vale, then, you idiot?’ said Weaver.
‘What about the balloon?’ Keeper said, his red eyes lighting up. ‘We’ll just fly back.’ He grinned.
‘It is fairly wrecked,’ Writer said, softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Archer said. ‘We must walk. As best we can.’
Keeper sagged and put his arm round Burp’s neck. He did not answer.
‘Let’s gather up our stuff and get on with it,’ Archer said and he went and picked up his bow from the basket.
He checked it over carefully, running his hands up and down the shaft. It did not seem damaged. He put one end on the ground, placed his muddy boot over the tip to hold it in place and bent the bow, listening carefully for any tell-tale cracking sounds from inside the wood. He heard none.
The remains of the snapped string were wrapped about the ends of the bow. He unpicked and unwound them and tossed the string aside.
He restrung it with a fresh string and tested the bow, pulling it back. The fact that both the wood of the bow and the string were wet did not help matters. Being wet took away some of the springiness.
He hoped he would not need to use it.
Grabbing his quiver, he checked the arrows. There were only four left and two of them were bent. Those would not fly straight, not without some serious reworking. So, he had only two arrows.
Archer slung the bow across his back. He hoped that there would not be any need to use his it on the journey home. There should not be.
Not unless they ran into any hungry wolves.
‘Everyone ready?’ Archer asked. ‘Keeper, have you got that tin jug with you? From the Alchemist’s room?’
‘I have,’ Keeper said, searching around in his sack.
‘We don’t need it now.’ Archer said. ‘But if we find a stream we can boil some water. Perhaps we may even find some mushrooms, some hawthorn berries and sloe berries. They can be very bitter but if we find some herbs and put it all into that jug then we can make some soup.’
He caught Writer smiling at him. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she said to him.
‘I am not,’ he said, surprised. He wondered how she could think he would enjoy being lost in the woods, having to rely on nothing more than his wits and experience to get home. How could he enjoy being pitted against the trials of the Moon Forest with almost nothing in his favour? What kind of person would enjoy meeting and then beating a challenge like that?
‘I’m not enjoying this at all, honest,’ he said again.
‘Hmmm,’ Writer said, still smiling.
‘I’m not enjoying anything. I’m just thirsty, is all.’ He was anxious to get going. Everyone was being so slow at packing up their few belongings. ‘Come on, you lot,’ he said. ‘The sun is already halfway to noon and we have yet to set off. Let us go, come on, come on.’
‘Oh blimey,’ said Weaver. ‘Who put you in charge, anyway?’
‘No one,’ said Archer, irritated at her. ‘More’s the pity or else I’d tell you to get moving before we all die of old age.’
Weaver muttered something but Archer could not hear what she said.
‘Which way do we go, Archer?’ Writer said, looking this way and that through the endless damp tree trunks as if she could see the Vale from where they stood.
‘South,’ Archer replied, kicking out the fire by covering it with wet earth and sodden leaves.
‘And which way is that?’ she said, as if she were humouring him.
Archer could not believe someone as clever as Writer did not know that in the morning you keep the sun to your left to head south. But he said nothing because he did not want to hurt her feelings so he just pointed the way through the trees and headed off in that direction.
The others followed behind him for a few steps until Writer called on them to stop.
‘Just a moment,’ Writer said. ‘What about the basket?’
They all stopped and turned round. ‘What about it?’ Weaver asked.
‘That’s the Alchemist there, somehow,’ Writer said, pointing at the great basket that had borne them aloft and away to freedom from the roof of the Tower.
‘Who cares, just leave him,’ Weaver said. ‘He deserves to rot under a tree, don’t he?’
‘I suppose he does,’ said Writer. ‘I do not know. It does not seem quite like the proper thing to do, somehow.’
They all looked it, laying there on its side under a giant beech. Mud splashed all up it, draped with scraps of cloth and loose strings. In a way, it was sad that the Alchemist would end up like that, just slowly rotting in the woods.
‘Oh well!’ Weaver said. ‘I suppose he’s just gutted forever, then.’
‘We can’t move it anyway,’ said Archer, itching to be off. ‘So there’s no point in talking about it, is there.’
For some reason, thinking about the basket rotting, all alone in the wood made him feel bad. And, worse, it made him feel much less confident about getting home.
They had almost no food. They had no water and, if they did not find a stream along the way, they would be relying on collecting rainwater in a single tin cup.
Even if they did find water they would have to boil it because drinking bad water could make you sick. The wet gripes could turn you inside out and kill you in a day.
Burp was bad at walking. All three of the others had been kept indoors for ages and ages and were not used to walking.
It was cold and already all of them were tired.
‘We have to hurry,’ he said.
‘Very well, bossy boots,’ Writer said. Weaver laughed. Keeper chuckled too. Burp hissed.
Archer sighed, turned, and kept walking.
They were in a bad way. The others might not quite realise it but Archer knew they had to get home soon.
Or they might never make it out at all.
Wolf Dreams
The t
hing that slowed them down the most was Burp. The little dragon went as fast as he possibly could. But with each of his wings chained closed, he was only able to hobble at a shuffling pace.
After half a day, they had barely gone any distance whatsoever.
His stomach cried out for food. But that was not such an unusual experience and most of the time he ignored it. He was thirsty and still very sore all over.
All he wanted to do was get home to his mum and his dad and little brothers and little sisters. And sleep in his bed.
Weaver was in her usual mood, stomping along as if she was angry at the earth itself and wanted to pummel the ground into submission with her boots. At least she carried a sack of cabbages without complaint.
Writer was quiet and walked along carrying the Alchemist’s spell book clutched to her chest, wrapped up in a square of cloth to protect it as best she could from the wet and the mud.
Keeper kept up a constant stream of talk for most of the morning, talking to everyone and no one about any thought that popped into his head. Eventually, even he tired of the sound of his voice and fell silent.
The only noises were that the wind in the leaves, of their breathing and their footsteps squelching and their clothes catching on the undergrowth. Burp shuffled and dragged himself along by Keeper’s side.
Though it was slow going, everyone was hungry and thirsty and walking was tiring. When they came to a nice big fallen tree, Archer stopped.
‘Time for a breather, I reckon,’ he said.
‘Oh, good I need a nice sit down,’ said Keeper, and he perched his backside against the fallen trunk, sighing with pleasure. ‘That’s nice, that is.’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a cabbage in a minute, Burp.’ Burp crouched at his feet, hissing quietly. Writer and Weaver leaned on the tree trunk.
Archer leaned back gratefully on the trunk next to him and stretched his aching back.