Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits

by Robin McKinley

  The effect was perhaps enhanced by his obvious amusement at what was being said. Now Mr. Askey closed his notebook, checked the time on his fob-watch, glanced towards the entrance to the clearing and leaned back

  ʺSo there’s not a lot they agree about, you see,ʺ he said. ʺOnly one at a time—that’s clear—and lives for anything up to three thousand years each go. Comes from Egypt, and something to do with the sun god. When his time’s up, he builds himself a pyre and sets light to it and is consumed, and the next Phoenix comes out of the ashes. Right? And then there’s a few bits and pieces fit in—his enemy being the Serpent—that goes with those adders your friend brings home—and maybe the fellow who talks about the miraculous egg he makes each time to hold the ashes of the old Phoenix—all myrrh and covered with jewels—I’ve been through the Cabinet House inventory—that’s in the Library still—and there’s a phoenix egg in there, all right—fifth earl picked it up in Heliopolis—nothing about jewels, of course. . . .ʺ

  Mr. Askey was reaching for his fob again when a man walked into the clearing and came towards them with the peculiar prancing strut that was immediately remarked upon by anyone who spoke of meeting him for the first time. Both Dave and Mr. Askey rose.

  The tenth earl was now in late middle age. A small man, filled with a peculiar, eager, electric energy that should have turned him into the complete figure of fun his enemies made him out to be, but somehow had the opposite effect. A high complexion; green eyes, slightly pop; short-clipped moustache; leather gaiters and a long tweed jacket, belted and reaching almost to the knees; a fur deer-stalker: all a deliberate self-caricature, an arrogant challenge to jeerers. Completely effective.

  ʺAfternoon, Askey, afternoon, Moffard—keeping remarkably fit, they tell me.ʺ

  ʺThasso, thank you, m’lord.ʺ

  ʺExcellent, excellent. Talk about that later. Now, then . . .ʺ

  The earl turned towards Sonny. They eyed each other as equals. It was easy to imagine that in his time Sonny had faced pharaohs with the same gaze. Without any self-consciousness, the earl held out his hand for Sonny to shake, but instead Sonny stepped onto his wrist, spread his wings wide and with a long, smooth movement closed them either side of the earl’s head and at the same time arched his neck forward until they touched foreheads. After a moment or two he straightened, refolded his wings and returned to the hitching rail. The earl took a pace back, spread his right hand over his heart, bowed his head, then turned to the bench.

  ʺWell, well, well,ʺ he said. ʺWhen it comes to sheer majesty, they could learn a thing or two from him at Windsor Castle, eh, Askey? You’re right, of course. Have to keep mum about this. Talk about that later. Moffard first. Told that last census fellow you weren’t sure, eh? Could’ve been Waterloo you remembered, not Trafalgar?ʺ

  ʺBest I could think on, m’lord.ʺ

  ʺDo for now. Do for now. But you’ll need to start taking the long view, Moffard. Won’t wash twenty years on, will it, leave alone fifty? Think you’re going the whole way? Right back to the cradle?ʺ

  ʺMaybe so, m’lord. I’d not put it past him. No way he can tell me.ʺ

  ʺI’ll not be there to see it, more’s the pity. Better start planning for it though. World’s changing, Moffard. Government’s getting its nose into all our lives. Happening more and more. No way we can be sure of keeping you hid, not for a hundred years. Two choices that I can see. One—keep moving on. Live one place for a while, soon as it looks like you’re going to be spotted, move on. Wouldn’t fancy that, eh?ʺ

  ʺThat I wouldn’t, m’lord. Lived here all my life, I have. Allus thought I’d be dying here.ʺ

  ʺFeel the same myself. Right. That case, four or five years on you’re going to have to start play-acting you’re getting older. And then you’ll fall ill, take to your bed, and your nephew’ll show up to look after you. . . . Oh, come on, man. If you don’t have one now, you’d better start having one—sheep farming out in New Zealand, maybe, spitting image of you, everyone tells you. And now, when you’re poorly, he takes you on. Anybody comes to the house, he’s the one they see. You’re in your bed upstairs. Maybe Dr. Pastern could pay you the odd visit—think we can let him in on this, Askey . . . ? Yes, Moffard?ʺ

  ʺBeggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but Sonny’ll see to that. First thing you said when you set eyes on ’im, weren’t it? ‘We’ve got to keep mum about this.’ Same with Mr. Askey ’ere. Same with me, when ’e weren’t nobbut a chick. Almost the first thought come into my ’ead—I wasn’t lettin’ on. Thassow ’e is. None sees ’im as he don’t want, and them as sees ’im don’t talk. That’s right, Sonny, aren’t it?ʺ

  All three turned towards the hitching rail. Sonny gazed back at them with a look of arrogant confidence that in a less impressive creature would have been smug. The earl chortled, unastonished but delighted by a successful turn in the intrigue.

  ʺCapital!ʺ he said. ʺPastern can sign the death certificate when the old lad officially pops it. You’re going to be chief mourner at your own funeral, Moffard—there’s not many get a chance like that. Now, Askey, we’ll want a trust or something—look into the terms of the entail—deeding a ninety-nine-year lease on this wood to Moffard and his heirs and assigns. Think that’s on, eh?ʺ

  The talk slid into a morass of the legal intricacies attendant on any ancient entail. Dave listened with growing anxiety, sufficiently marked for the earl eventually to notice.

  ʺYes, Moffard. Something troubling you?ʺ

  ʺBeggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but this aren’t anything I’m due. ’Undred years now you done right by me, you and your family, more’n right. No call for you to take on another ’undred years.ʺ

  ʺNonsense, Moffard. We’d do it any case. Besides, there’s your friend here. We’ve had half the monarchs of England knocking on our door over the years, sold whole estates to pay for the honour of lodging them. I tell you there’s not many of them did us more honour by their presence than your friend here. Shan’t see him through myself, but nor’ll I die happy not being certain the two of you are going to make it. You follow? Good man. Now, Askey . . .ʺ

  Dave gave up trying to understand the legalities, his mind too numb for thought, but his hand unconsciously fingering at a dull ache that had started towards the back of his lower jaw. Not toothache—he had none left to ache—but—

  Lord above! Got one comin’ back!

  It was this discovery, as much as anything that the earl had said, that forced him at last to think about the reality of what lay ahead for him, to try to peer through mists and shadows down the diminishing perspective of the years to the mysterious vanishing point of his own unbirth. For some time after Mr. Askey and the earl had left, he continued to sit there, until he was roused by a sharp rap on his right knee—Sonny’s peck, demanding his attention.

  As soon as he saw he had it, Sonny turned and strutted off round the corner of the cottage. Dave found him by the open shed where he kept his larger tools. Here Sonny pecked at the spade he wanted Dave to bring, then rose and, flying from branch to branch, led the way to the clearing where the broken walls of the Cabinet House enclosed the low mound of its remains.

  Sonny settled onto the top of this, scratched at the surface and stood back. Obediently Dave started to dig. Below the first meagre layer of grasses the mound was still almost pure ash. He heaped the first spadeful to one side, and Sonny immediately started to scrattle through it like a chicken scrattling through loose soil for insects and seeds. Finding nothing, he stood back again. They repeated the process with a second spadeful, and a third, from which Sonny picked out something about half as large as a hazelnut and set it aside. From then on most spadefuls contained one or two of the things, varying in size from an acorn to a grain of wheat. There was a distinct pit in the top of the mound by the time Sonny decided he’d gathered enough.

  The harvest was more than Dave could have carried in his cupped hands, so he unknotted his neckerchief and gathered the things into it. Sonny supervised the operati
on closely, picking up some of the smallest that Dave had missed. Dave knotted the kerchief into a bag and carried it back to the cottage, where he spread a larger cloth on the table and spilt the contents of the kerchief out onto it. The rattling and rubbing of transport had loosened much of the ash that had coated the things, and now Dave could see, or at least guess, what he’d dug up. The things were hard and shiny-smooth, some rounded, some faceted, but all glowing or glinting with the colours of fire.

  Sonny stood beside the heap looking enquiringly at him.

  ʺThese for his lordship, then?ʺ Dave asked him. ʺWonder what they’re worth. Pay for our keep for a good while on, eh?ʺ

  With a feeling of intense relief at no longer being wholly beholden for his own safeguarding through the difficult years ahead, he watched Sonny soar up to the canopy of the trees to bask in sunlight until it was time for him to sing his evening hymn.

  March 1915

  In the same week that the news came from France that the heir to the earldom (mad on soldiering) had been killed by a random shell on his dug-out in a quiet section of the front near Arras, Mr. Askey died of the cancer that had long been killing him. On the estate the trauma of the major event wholly obscured the minor. Mr. Askey might have endured his slow and agonising passing almost unattended if Dave (now officially Ralph) Moffard hadn’t sat and slept by his bed through four days and three nights, mostly just holding his hand, sometimes talking a little, dribbling water between the tense, grimacing lips and injecting the prescribed doses of morphine with tenderness and precision.

  For most of the time the drug only partly masked the pain. There was a brief spell of full relief after each injection, and then a slow return of the torture, like a jagged reef emerging from as the tide recedes, until the final stage in which the groans became sobbing cries and Dave could do nothing but hold his friend’s hand and suffer with his suffering while the seconds limped ever more slowly past until the cycle could be repeated.

  Late on the afternoon of the fourth day, when both already foresaw another endless night of trudging across that Sahara of unmerited punishment, Dave heard a sharp rap on the window. He crossed the room to look through the slit between the curtains and saw Sonny perched on the sill. Astonished—it was at least a week sooner than he’d ever returned before, and the winter had not been kind—he raised the sash to let him in.

  ʺHe’s bad, Sonny, bad,ʺ he gasped. ʺAnything you can do for him? Oh, Sonny!ʺ

  The moan from the bed shuddered into a howl as the cycle entered its last phase. Sonny flipped deftly to the foot-rail and perched there, gazing dispassionately down the length of the bed at the living mask of Tragedy on the pillows. Dave came and stood beside him, gripping the rail. Without warning Sonny arched his neck and struck at Dave’s wrist, a precisely weighted peck that left a single bead of blood shining on the skin. He repeated the blow against his own breast, and withdrew with another bead, this time a fiery orange, at the tip of his beak. When he placed the second bead upon the first they mingled, and at the same time mounded up and seemed to solidify into a single jewel that glowed like an ember in the darkened room.

  Sonny contemplated it for a moment, then picked it up, stalked the length of the bed and placed it neatly between Mr. Askey’s lips.

  There was a pause, and the mask became human, became the face of their friend, drawn and lined with illness, but known, admired and loved.

  Mr. Askey opened his eyes and looked at them and smiled.

  ʺOh, that’s good,ʺ he whispered. ʺThat’s good. That’s good. Thank you for everything, Dave. Thank you, Sonny. Glad you made it home in time. Give my respects to his lordship. Tell him it’s all been worth while, all worth while.ʺ

  He closed his eyes and died.

  The earl bore the loss of his heir characteristically. His only known show of emotion on the subject came when some titled tub-thumper publicly congratulated him on setting an example to the nation by giving his son’s life for the cause. He glared at her briefly, then snapped, ʺDon’t be a fool, woman. I didn’t give it. He did,ʺ and turned his back on her.

  Fourteen years later, he was to endure another bereavement when his grandson (mad on motor-cars) killed himself at Brooklands while road-testing a straight-eight speedster of his own design, leaving a great-grandson to inherit the earldom at the age of five when the old man eventually died in 1932.

  Summer 1934

  The madness that caused the eleventh earl eventually to be known—notorious, even—as the Green Earl was not immediately apparent. The seeds from which it was to grow were probably sown soon after his great-grandfather’s death by a Miss Wells, recently engaged as governess to his two elder sisters.

  Miss Wells was a tall, plain young woman in her early thirties, with a wide mouth, wide-set eyes and a pale but not unhealthy complexion. She had a look of pleasant calm, with reserves of determination below the surface. She was a governess because she had been denied a formal education beyond the age of twelve, when her mother had fallen ill from an hereditary disease and her father had withdrawn her from school to help with the household chores. From then on she had educated herself in her spare time, choosing subjects that interested her, at first generally botanical, but concentrating more and more on native British trees, since there were subjects for her to study locally in the Forest of Dean, where her parents lived. By the time of her mother’s death and her father’s almost instant remarriage, she was a considerable expert on some of the larger species and had had technical papers published in professional journals; none of this was much practical use to a woman turned out of her home with no more than a token allowance and with no academic qualifications whatever. One of her brothers-in-law, a motoring crony of the young earl’s father, had recommended her for the post of governess, and the post had seemed right for her the moment she set eyes on the woodlands that mottled the estate. It was not surprising therefore that at almost the first opportunity she visited Dave’s Wood. Since it was the afternoon on which the girls had their riding lessons and the nursery maid had her afternoon off, she was in charge of the earl, so she took him with her. Besides, there was a Mr. Moffard, whose permission she would apparently need. If he proved difficult, she could tell him she wanted to give the earl a botany lesson.

  There was no such difficulty. Mr. Moffard seemed a courteous old man, though somewhat withdrawn. Just before leaving, Miss Wells asked him if he had any idea of the age of the magnificent oak tree that stood on the other side of the clearing opposite his front door.

  Mr. Moffard seemed to open up a little.

  ʺNot to say for sure, ma’am,ʺ he answered. ʺSeventeen ’undred eighty-two she was there, full-grown—that’s in the diaries—an’ there’s oaks in there ’alf grown as aren’t down as full-grown for another ’undred, ’undred an’ twenty years. So give ’er a couple of ’undred on before the diaries, I reckon she was a young’un when the Armada come by.ʺ

  ʺNot a Domesday oak, then?ʺ

  ʺAh, no, ma’am. Fewer of those than folk make out, and what there is more dead than alive. An’ Domesday this’ld ’a’ been forest far as you could see. Thissair wood’s maybe a bit o’ that left over, but there aren’t a tree in it anythin’ near that old, not in the diaries, neither.ʺ

  ʺDo you mean you’ve got diaries about the wood going back to—seventeen eighty, wasn’t it?ʺ

  ʺEighty-two, ma’am. Fifth earl begun it. Liked collectin’ stuff, ’e did, anything old, almost, and gettin’ it written down in a book. Sees thissair wood, full of old trees. ‘Get ’em all writ down,’ ’e tells my great-granddad. Thassow it begun, on’y no one never told us to stop. You interested in trees, ma’am?ʺ

  Miss Wells looked at him almost shuddering with excitement.

  ʺMore than anything in the world, Mr. Moffard,ʺ she said. ʺMay I look at your diaries?ʺ

  ʺReally old ones, they’re over in the Library at the House, ma’am. Eighteen forty-two thissair lot go back to. . . . Careful, m’lord! She’ll bite, ’cos
she don’t know not to. Get ’er out for you, shall I?ʺ

  Miss Wells had managed to keep half an eye on her charge as he nosed cautiously round the room. The obvious danger came from the log fire burning in the enormous open hearth. It was piled surprisingly high, even for a dull, chilly April afternoon, but so far the earl had been more interested in the mass of other attractions in the room, all stowed as neatly as if in the cabin of a careful sailor. His latest find had been a small crate, adapted into an animal cage. She watched briefly while Mr. Moffard opened it and fished out a fox cub for the earl to look at and touch, and then turned to the diaries. There was almost a shelf of them, in different shapes and sizes; each covered two or three years. She opened the earliest and was immediately enthralled. Every major tree in the wood seemed to have its own entry, with a number, a code for its location, and then a record of its progress through the year: measurement of girth, first bud, leafing, flowering, general health, creatures using it to nest and roost, loss of branches and other damage (a close-range blast from a shot-gun to an ash in one instance) and so on. She pulled out a diary forty years on to see what had happened to the ash, and found that it was now dead all down one side. Another twenty and it was gone, apart from an entry recording the fungi on its stump.

  By this time she could hardly think for excitement. She knew of no other record in the country remotely resembling this in completeness of detail. She glanced up to check if Mr. Moffard was yet free and saw that he was putting the cub back in its cage. As he came towards her an oddness struck her. Her heart sank.

  ʺThese are quite extraordinary, Mr. Moffard,ʺ she told him. ʺBut . . . but . . . I mean, it’s been over ninety years, and they’re all in the same handwriting.ʺ

  ʺAh, no, ma’am. Just the two of us, me an’ me uncle. Spittin’ image of ’im, I am, folk tell me, an’ it’s the same with the writing. Remarkable long life ’e lived, too. Born ’tween the last day of seventeen ninety-nine, ’e used to tell folk, an’ the first of eighteen ’undred an’ and nowt, and din’t—ʺ