Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale)

by Alan Skinner

  Sparkle shook her head, letting her mane toss in the wind and ran to Grunge. ‘Hello,’ she neighed.

  ‘Hi, Sparkle,’ said Grunge, stroking her neck. He checked her feedbag and felt her hair. As he’d expected, Crimson hadn’t neglected Sparkle. Her feedbag was half full and her coat was clean and sleek. So he sat on the fence, took out his harmonica and played something Sparkle and Calamity were sure would sound like a song one day. And they waited for Crimson.

  ≈

  The breeze washed the perspiration from Crimson’s cheeks and brow. It burrowed beneath her coat and cooled her skin. It blew the haze from her eyes and calmed the pounding in her chest.

  She sat on the wall of a quaint covered bridge, her legs dangling over the water, her arms clutching a pole supporting the roof. It was a small bridge over a small stream that ran from the Meddle River through the coffee plantation and into the sea. Below her feet, the water ran slowly, in no hurry to come to the end of its journey. Fish fed lazily at the bottom or played hide and seek among the reeds near the banks. It was a peaceful place and Crimson had gone there to try to make sense of what had been happening to her.

  Yesterday she had told the Myrmidots of her uneasy feelings. Today there was more to tell but Crimson didn’t know how to go about it. She had gone to sleep last night, looking forward to the harvest, and had woken early, before dawn. In the grey light that precedes morning she had seen the curtains on the window and the furniture in the room. Near the door, Calamity was asleep in her little bed.

  As Crimson had blinked the sleep from her eyes, the room had blurred, then filled with flames of blue. She had swung her feet out of the bed – and stopped. The floor had become a sea of fire, fingers of blue flames reaching for her toes. The flames grew until they filled the room but it was a fire without heat. Voices came from the flames: Amelia’s, taunting and threatening her, then that horrible shriek as she had died, and unknown voices, mocking and laughing. Eyes floated in the fire, piercing yellow eyes that fixed on Crimson as she huddled on her bed, her arms round her knees.

  Then the voices had faded and the eyes melted; the flames had dimmed. Crimson heard the laughter and chatter of her friends, Muddles, Beadles and Myrmidots. One by one, like distant lights being extinguished, the voices that laughed and talked had stopped and the room had burned in silence.

  Crimson closed her eyes. She remembered Amelia’s voice at the river, how it called to her without words, and how she had refused to listen. What she had fought that morning was exactly like that. Eyes closed, she willed the flames away. And when she opened her eyes, the blue fire was gone and dawn light was peeking through the curtains into her room. Calamity had yawned and opened her sleepy eyes . . .

  Crimson knew it hadn’t just been a dream. It was also part of a story, a tale with a plot she couldn’t follow. And she didn’t have a clue what it meant. She had hoped that the crisp air, the clear stream and the quiet would help her understand her vision, but she was no closer now than she had been when she first awoke.

  ‘It’s a good day for sitting on a bridge. You can feel the water just by looking at it.’

  Despite her dark thoughts, Crimson smiled at the soft growling behind her.

  ‘Hello, Miniver,’ she said, without turning round. ‘The river is always the same but it’s always changing. I think that’s why I like it so much.’

  Miniver raised herself on to her hind legs and rested her front paws on the wall of the bridge. She looked down.

  ‘Hmmm,’ growled Miniver. ‘Same stream, different water.’

  Crimson rested her hand on Miniver’s head. ‘What brings you here?’ she asked.

  ‘You. I saw you from the hill. You seemed upset. I thought you were going to fall in a few minutes ago.’

  Crimson hesitated a moment before replying. ‘It’s not very far to fall and not very deep water. I’m OK, Miniver. Honestly.’

  ‘You’re not. What’s happened? You seemed fine when we got back from Forge yesterday,’ said Miniver.

  ‘Just foolishness. I needed to get away by myself for a few minutes.’ Crimson hopped off the wall. ‘But I should get back. Grunge is probably at the firehouse already, waiting for me.’

  Miniver looked closely at Crimson and growled. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. But remember: just because it’s your problem doesn’t mean you’re the one with the answer.’

  Crimson leaned down and gave Miniver a kiss on her muzzle. ‘Thanks, Miniver. I’ll remember that.’

  Miniver stood and watched Crimson as she walked back towards the fire station. When Crimson had disappeared, Miniver turned and ambled back towards the nearby hill, deep in thought.

  ≈

  The sound of the fire cart’s bell ringing made Crimson’s stomach lurch. There had never been a fire in Muddlemarsh and now it seemed that, just when she was needed, she was off feeling sorry for herself. She started to run, the clanging of the bell urging her on.

  There was a strange rhythm to the peal that Crimson couldn’t quite grasp. She crossed the field and ran into the station yard. Sparkle was gone. ‘Of course,’ she thought, ‘someone will have hitched her to the cart by now.’ She raced across the empty paddock. Then it came to her. As the realisation dawned, she stopped running and grinned.

  When she entered the fire station, Grunge was standing beside the fire cart, pulling the little cord that struck the clanger against the small brass bell. A modest audience of two – Sparkle and Calamity – stood in front of the fire cart as Grunge tried to play a tune he’d been practising for the last few weeks. Grunge gave the cord three quick, short tugs, then a harder, fuller tug. As the last peal filled the firehouse, he turned to his audience and bowed.

  ‘Bravo!’ neighed Sparkle.

  ‘Encore!’ barked Calamity.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grunge. ‘Having only one note to play makes it easier. I’ll get the beat right one day, too.

  Crimson joined in the applause. ‘I’ll have to remember to have the bell tuned for you if you’re going to add it to the collection of instruments you play,’ she joked.

  ‘Hey, Crimson, there you are!’ Grunge went over to greet her.

  ‘Hi, Grunge. I thought I’d missed Home’s first fire.’ Crimson gave Calamity a scratch and then patted Sparkle. ‘You’ve groomed Sparkle. Thank you.’

  ‘I helped, too’ barked Calamity.

  ‘I’m sure you did, Calamity. Thank you, too.’

  ‘Are you ready? There’s plenty of work to be done,’ said Grunge.

  Crimson nodded. ‘Let’s go. Are you coming, Calamity? Or are you going to stay and keep Sparkle company?’

  Calamity tilted her head, looking at the horse out of the corner of her eye. ‘I think I’ll stay. Sparkle’s putting on a bit of weight. She needs someone to chase her and keep her fit,’ yelped the pup.

  Sparkle twisted her head and looked down her long body and sturdy haunches. ‘I have big bones, that’s all,’ she said, and chased Calamity out of the firehouse.

  ≈

  The coffee fields were in the hills behind Home. They covered the slopes, hectare after hectare of deep-green trees laden with rust-red coffee cherries. At the bottom of the hills lay the warehouses, drying racks, processing centres and, of course, the enormous red-brick roasting ovens. From a distance, the hills rippled with the movement of Muddles moving among the trees, picking the coffee cherries. Other Muddles were busy sorting and processing the fruit. Every Muddle helped with the harvest and production. Each knew what they were best at and just got on with it.

  Slight was picking coffee cherries alongside a young Muddle called Poke. The collar of Poke’s trench coat was turned up and her beret was set at just the right angle for a private detective.

  Slight peered at her. ‘You have coffee growing in your right ear, Poke,’ he said.

  Poke’s hand went to her ear. She lowered it immediately, feeling a bit foolish for falling for Slight’s joke.

  ‘Do not,’
she said.

  ‘Well, I believe you do,’ said Slight, and he put his hand to Poke’s ear and proudly held up a piece of broccoli. ‘Oh,’ he sighed. ‘It was supposed to be coffee.’

  Further down the hill, a row of young Muddles were sorting through the freshly washed cherries. Young Muddles have a very keen sense of smell, so are very good at selecting the finest coffee cherries. Kite picked up a deep-red cherry, pushed his flying goggles up on to his head and scrutinised the fruit. He sniffed it, nodded with approval and placed it in a large vat marked ‘Best Beans’. Next to him, his friends Chip and Bristle did the same, their hands darting into the pile of coffee cherries with amazing speed, selecting and testing the coffee.

  And Japes and Cape were there, turning the handle of a large drum containing the washed cherries. Inside the drum, hundreds of little teeth shredded the flesh from the fruit, leaving just the green coffee beans. After twenty-three turns of the handle, Japes and Cape stopped, and Sky opened the bottom of the drum to remove the shredded flesh, then pressed a lever to tilt the drum. The beans poured on to a conveyor belt.

  The conveyor took the beans along to Shift and Rustle, who transferred them to large wooden barrels for a final soak and clean. When the beans were perfectly clean, they were laid out on fine mesh racks to dry.

  Throughout the plantation, the smell of roasting coffee was always present. The green beans, dry and clean, were shovelled on to trays. Whist was one of the Muddles who slid the trays into the huge roasting ovens. She never used a timer. Experience and a perfect sense of smell meant she knew exactly when the beans were roasted just right.

  And sitting beside a coffee maker gurgling over a small fire was Patch. As each batch was roasted, the pirate would make a small pot of coffee and take two or three tiny sips to make sure it was the best it could be.

  Everyone was so busy with whatever their task was that no one noticed the small bird-shaped cloud that rose from the High Mountains into the blue sky. Every Muddle felt the familiar tingle, like a small charge of electricity, as the plantation filled with shimmering light and the Mix came on them.

  Slight was reaching for a cluster of cherries on the tree when he found that he was holding a tray of green beans ready for roasting. Japes was watching her hands go round and round, turning the handle, when her hands became Reach’s hands, holding a large basket of cherries. Fortunately, Cape continued to turn the handle with hands that emerged from a jester’s sleeves. Whist slid a single choice cherry into the oven and Poke popped a piece of twig that Bristle had just extracted from the sorting table into the ‘Best Beans’ barrel. Patch was just about to take a sip of coffee when he found himself sucking a piece of broccoli. All over the plantation, every Muddle did something that someone else had been doing the minute before. Not one Muddle complained; they laughed, they joked, they righted what had gone wrong and they got on with their work.

  Of course, the same thing happened all over again a couple hours later when the Mix ended. And the Muddles dealt with it as they always had, whether it lasted ten minutes or ten hours. It was life as usual in Muddlemarsh.

  Crimson and Grunge left the woods and joined their friends. The sight of all the Muddles working together gave Crimson a sense of comfort and balance she desperately needed. She didn’t feel at peace. She just felt able to face whatever problems were at hand.

  ≈

  Autumn is not as fickle as spring but it does have its whims. The next day clouds covered the sky. The threat of rain didn’t worry the Muddles, but in Forge it caused two young apprentices some concern.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ said Touch, looking at the sky. ‘It will slow us down. And I hate camping in the rain.’

  Cres closed the lid of her wagon. ‘I packed raincoats just in case. I think that’s everything,’ she said, with just a little too much uncertainty to suit Touch.

  ‘Food?’

  ‘Yup. D’you still have the map?’

  ‘Of course,’ Touch replied. ‘It’s, ah, in here.’ He opened one of the pockets in his backpack and felt inside. His hand came out empty. ‘Maybe this one.’ He searched another pocket, then another and another. ‘Wait a minute. Didn’t I give it to you, Cres?’

  ‘Come to think of it, you did, Touch. It’s in my pack.’ Cres produced the copy of the map. ‘See.’

  ‘We’re going to have to keep our wits about us. This is our chance and we’re going to do it right. Now, let’s hitch the wagons and be on our way,’ Touch declared.

  One of the dangers faced by pedestrians in the two towns of Myrmidia was having their toes run over by a wagon trailing behind a bicycle. The wagons, which looked very much like large wooden toolboxes, made pedalling somewhat more difficult, but were rather handy for carrying a variety of necessities, such as tools, shopping bags, repair kits for tyres and, of course, one’s lunch.

  Touch and Cres’s wagons were not like the usual wagons. One was slightly longer and wider; the other, though, was very different. Most noticeably, it was an airtight container made from thick, dark-coloured metal rather than wood. Short and squat, it looked solid and heavy.

  It was two days since Achillia had caught them in her office. The apprentices had spent all of the previous day making their wagons. The wooden one carried the equipment they thought they would need to break off a piece of the fire rock, plus water, lamps and sleeping bags. In their backpacks, they had food and clothes for three days. The other wagon had taken most of the day to build. They had made it from thick metal, and they were sure it would withstand the heat of the fire rock.

  ‘You take the wooden one, I’ll take the metal one,’ Touch offered.

  ‘Cos I’m a girl?’ Cres retorted.

  ‘No, cos the wooden one is full and the metal one is empty.’

  They hitched the wagons to the rear of their bikes and hoisted their backpacks.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said Touch. ‘Let’s get going. We should be able to get there by dark.’

  They were about to set off when Beatrice glided around the corner.

  ‘You’re all ready, then?’ she asked.

  Cres would have been happier if they had managed to leave without seeing the Lord Mayor or her deputy again. She felt nervous around the solemn Beatrice. Maybe Achillia had sent Beatrice to tell then she had changed her mind. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was all a trick, the kind adults like to play on young people to teach them a lesson. She waited for Beatrice to tell them they couldn’t go, adding the dreaded words, ‘And let that be a lesson to you.’

  Beatrice looked at the two apprentices and then at the squat, metal wagon hitched to Touch’s bike.

  ‘You had better hope that can hold the blue fire,’ she said flatly. ‘If you are still determined to go, I can’t stop you. Achillia has told you that you face considerable risk. I just came to renind you again. Do not underestimate the blue fire.’

  ‘We’ll be careful –’ said Touch, but Beatrice cut him off.

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Touch. Whatever you think – whatever you imagine – comes out of an ignorant head. You will do well to remember that. Now, be on your way. And make sure you report to me when you return.’

  Touch and Cres received a rather stiff hug from Beatrice. Without waiting for them to set off, she turned on her heel and walked away. Touch and Cres looked at one another. Touch shrugged and grinned.

  ‘C’mon, Cres!’ he cried. ‘Let’s go before she changes her mind!’

  Beginnings have an enthusiasm all their own. Touch and Cres put their feet to the pedals and pushed, flying through Forge and heading to the High Mountains.

  The Land falls from east to west. Beadledom is mountainous, with tall peaks and deep valleys; Muddlemarsh, sandwiched between its neighbours, has gentle hills covered with wooded forest; Myrmidia is a flat land, the hills of Muddlemarsh diminishing to a wide plain that continues to the western sea. Running like an unbroken wall across the northern edge of the Land are the High Mountains.

  Touc
h and Cres raced through the countryside. The clouds gradually dissolved and the day was perfect for cycling. An hour after noon they arrived at the border with Muddlemarsh. Here, Welcome Bridge spans the mighty Salvation River, joining Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia.

  They crossed the bridge, the wagons buzzing over the stone. Their stomachs growled and rumbled with hunger. They left the road and found a large tree with branches spread like sheltering arms. In the shade of the tree, Touch and Cres parked their bikes and ate lunch.

  Cres took the map from her pack. The road they travelled led south to Home. Since few ever go to Bourne Bridge, there is no road directly north-east from the town. To make the entire journey by road, therefore, they would have to travel double the distance: all the way south to the Crossroads, and then all the way north-east along the road from the Crossroads to Bourne Bridge. So they had decided to leave the road and cut across using one of the old tracks made by Myrmidots and Muddles when they came to this part of the Land.

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye open for a track east,’ Cres said between mouthfuls of cheese and pickles. ‘It won’t be much of a track. Hardly anyone comes up.’

  Touch opened his pack and took out a bright red apple. ‘We won’t make as good time as we did from Forge to here,’ he said, crunching into it. ‘At least it’s still flat and there aren’t many trees. We’ll be at Bourne Bridge by tonight.’ Touch felt apple juice running down his chin. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

  ‘I hope they didn’t exaggerate the size of the tunnel into the mountain. I don’t fancy pulling this wagon on foot,’ Cres said.

  ‘Well, seeing for ourselves is always the best way. And we won’t do that sitting here eating cheese.’

  Touch took the last bite of his apple and threw the core on the ground. Cres picked it up, dug a small hole with her hands and buried it. Then she and Touch mounted their bikes and were on their way.

  ‘What if they don’t want an apple tree there, Cres?’ Touch asked. ‘What if the Muddles had marked that spot for a nice big elm tree? Or a lemon tree? They might have said to themselves, “This is a perfect place for a cherry tree.” And now you’ve upset their planning. You shouldn’t go around planting trees willy-nilly. You take liberties sometimes, Cres. You have to watch that. It could get you in trouble someday.’