by Sarah Webb
“This is terrible!” cried Silla. “My ice domain is shrinking. That foul fiend and his furnace breath is melting it away!”
The Ice Queen stepped down from her sleigh and with Pauline beside her moved forward across the ice. Pauline handed her the binoculars she was carrying, and Silla gazed around. There was nothing to be seen.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Silla shouted. Her voice carried across the empty landscape, and echoed among the mountains.
Suddenly they heard a loud CRACK! And then another, and another.
“Take cover!” cried Silla, as everyone crouched down. She looked around for their attacker, then Pauline began to squeak with alarm, and pointed back towards the land.
A gap had appeared in the ice. The slab they were on had broken off from the mainland and become an ice floe that was slowly floating away.
They rushed to the edge. The gap was too wide to jump. They were slowly floating away, out into the ocean.
Pauline spread her flippers and prepared to dive. She looked over at Silla and beckoned encouragingly for her to follow.
“I can’t swim,” said Silla sadly. “I never needed to learn.” A teardrop ran down her cheek and froze at once.
She and Pauline stood gazing at each other, perplexed.
A shout broke the silence. “Ahoy there, shipmates!”
They saw Zeffa, smiling broadly as he paddled a raft of ice towards them.
“Get back!” called Silla. “We are at war! I have brought my army to do battle with you and your cohorts!”
Zeffa went on paddling. “Yes, I see your army, and very terrifying they are …” He glanced towards the shore, where the bedraggled crowd of penguins stared out towards them. “But I have no cohorts. Look around. Not a single cohort in sight. I come alone, and I come in peace.”
His raft was now right beside Silla’s ice floe. She knew her freezing powers were useless, so she simply glared at him while he stepped on to the floe, saying politely, “May I come aboard? I’d better help you get back to shore, before you drift away into the ocean. Then we can talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said the Ice Queen haughtily. She turned her back on him and climbed into her sleigh. Pauline sat down beside her in support.
Zeffa smiled, and began to paddle.
When they were all safely back ashore, Zeffa said: “Now you see what we are up against. We need to fight this menace together.”
“Together?” Silla was scornful. “You are the King of the Warm Winds. You hate the cold. Why would you want to save the ice?”
“The warming-up is worldwide. It’s gone global. And that puts my land and my lifestyle in danger too.”
“Your lifestyle? Surely the warmer the better is your motto!”
“Listen to me, Silla. You love your chilly land, don’t you? You love to lounge at your window with an iced drink in your hand and watch the snow fall and the gales blow cold winds. I have even heard that you sometimes have a bath in the kitchen freezer.”
“How did you hear that?!” Silla snapped.
“I have my sources. But it’s true, isn’t it, that cold for you is just the ticket, the bees’ knees, the icing on the cake …?”
“Cut the clichés, please. What’s it to you, anyway?”
“Well, just as you like your icy life, I love to bask in the sun on tropical islands, sipping hot rum punch and blowing warm, balmy breezes to make the palm trees sway, and listening to the twang of guitars as the sunset glows like jewels on the ocean …”
“Sentimental claptrap!” Silla sneered.
“Maybe, but I love it just as much as you love your shivery ways. And if we don’t do something soon, we’ll both be saying goodbye to it all for ever.”
“But there are plenty of tropical isles for you to laze about on. What’s the problem? I still think you’ve got some kind of trick up your sleeve.”
“Come with me – I’ll show you.”
“Come where?”
“Take my hands, and hold on.”
Reluctantly, Silla did so. Zeffa puffed out his chest and took a huge deep breath, as he had before. Then he blew it out with all his force.
“Hold on tight!” he cried, as the sleigh zoomed along like a plane on a runway, before taking off into the air.
Zeffa kept blowing with amazing strength, and before long Silla could feel the warmth of the tropical sun on her face. She shuddered.
“Look down,” said Zeffa. “What do you see?”
“I see one of your tropical islands, and a bunch of those human creatures swarming around on the beaches. They have colonised the whole earth, those creepy-crawlies.”
“Yes, and they’ll finish it off, if we don’t band together to stop them. Let us fly on a little way.”
Soon they were flying high above the empty ocean, and Zeffa guided the sleigh down till they were hovering just above the water’s surface.
“Now look down,” said Zeffa. “This used to be one of my favourite islands.”
Below them, Silla could see the tops of palm trees poking out from the water, and here and there a tower and a steeple. She could vaguely make out some houses just below the surface too.
“Now you see why we are on the same side,” said Zeffa. “If the world warms up any more, all your icy kingdom will melt, and the oceans will rise and rise, and not only will you lose your lands, but these islands will be drowned too, and all the forests and the deserts and the mountains. As well as all those hordes of humans in their tall cities where they live packed together like ants. It’s their fault, you know.”
“What is?”
“The drowning of the world. It’s all down to them. Let me explain …”
“Do you mind if you do it back at my palace? I can’t stand this heat much longer. I’m afraid I’m beginning to melt too.”
“Certainly.” Zeffa held her hands, then took a deep, deep breath and blew it out again with a roar.
Soon they were back in the Ice Queen’s frosty land, where they got a great welcome from the assembled troops, who thought they had been abandoned. Then, together, they made the long trek home, the sleigh helped this time by several puffs from the king’s amazing lungs.
He told Silla all about the warming of the world and the climate changes being caused by the polluting activities of the humans. He said that there were some humans who understood what was happening, and tried to campaign to stop it.
“We must help them,” said Zeffa.
“But how?”
“We’ll enlist your penguins. If they arrive wherever there are marches or demonstrations or scientists holding meetings to warn of the dangers, the publicity will be huge. Those humans just adore penguins – they think they’re so cuddly and cute. If the humans think they’re threatened, they may finally pay some attention.”
“I’m sure it’s worth a try,” said Silla. She turned to Pauline. “You’ll help us, won’t you, Pauline?”
Pauline nodded and squeaked with enthusiasm.
“Then let’s get busy. Pauline, you explain the plan, and we’ll send you all out to campaign.” Then, turning back to Zeffa, “But how will they get to these places?”
“That’s my great idea – it will cause a sensation with those humans! The penguins will all swim together.”
“But it’s so far!”
“Don’t forget the amazing power of my breath. I have made a study of global ocean currents. I’ll plan their routes, get down just below the surface, and blow them along in the right direction. It will be the fastest sea travel ever.”
“I wish I could help,” said Silla, “but I get out of breath just climbing on to my throne.”
“Walk along the shoreline,” said Zeffa, “and keep doing your freezing trick as you go. It will stop some of the melting – for a while, anyway.”
“I’ll do it.”
It took some time for Pauline to explain to the penguins just what she and Zeffa were hoping to do. Most of them were excited at t
he adventure – and even the lazier ones were persuaded, once they realised that all their homes, and even their lives, could be destroyed if they didn’t get involved.
The next day the penguins assembled at the shore, and both Silla and Zeffa gave them a pep talk to tell them how they were helping to try to save the world and themselves from extinction.
Then Zeffa held out his hands, took a deep breath and called: “World Savers! Let’s go swimming!”
There was a squeaking, growling, grunting cheer from the throng, and Zeffa led the penguins to the water’s edge. In a mass of flapping flippers and waving paws they dived into the ocean, and at once became rulers of their own world, zipping along through the water with sleek speed.
Zeffa waved to Silla. “Farewell, friend!” he cried.
And Silla called back, “My friend, farewell and good luck!”
Zeffa plunged in.
Silla watched. She could see the penguins now and then leaping above the surface. Then she saw one penguin soar right out of the water, waving wildly. It was Pauline.
Silla waved and blew her a kiss, and Pauline dived back down into the ocean.
Celine Kiernan is the author of The Moorehawke Trilogy, the first title of which, The Poison Throne, won the Readers’ Association of Ireland Award for best book. Celine also wrote the multi-award-winning Into the Grey. She lives in rural Ireland where, despite being dyslexic, she writes about ghosts, talking animals and sometimes quite unpleasant things that go bump in the dark.
Tatyana Feeney is originally from North Carolina but now lives in Ireland. She has written and illustrated three picture books: Small Bunny’s Blue Blanket, Little Owl’s Orange Scarf and Little Frog’s Tadpole Trouble. Tatyana has two lively and enthusiastic children and a small dog, who thinks he is a large dog.
I am not the one in need of playmates, you understand. The thought of children makes me shudder. Grabbish, clutching creatures with their love of tail pulling – most of them are beneath contempt.
No, I am not doing this for myself; I am doing it for the girl. She is the only reason for these foolish, nightly journeys out into the cold.
The king does not prevent my leaving, though I know he would prefer I stay. This does not surprise me. The man does nothing these days but sit and stare into the fire. His people come daily to his rooms, hoping to rouse him to action; have him roaring about the battlements, directing soldiers and firing cannon, as he used to only recently. But he has given up.
His lack of spirit frightens his people. Without him, they think they will lose the war. They are right, but I couldn’t care less about their war. The king’s lap is warm, and he is content for me to stay there as long as I wish – what more does a cat need from a man? Except perhaps a morsel or two to eat.
Slim chance of that these days.
The sun has been down for hours, and the air is chilly as I drop from the window on to the snow-muffled roof. Snow. Bah! No self-respecting cat with even half a brain goes out in snow if they can help it. It is already almost belly-deep as I pick my way along the parapets, and it is falling still, drifting like fat feathers from a starless sky. Those surfaces not snow-covered are already bitter with frost. I have left a warm fire and velvet-lined lap to be out here. I deserve a medal. Whatever a medal is. Something to be fondly wished for, if the soldiers are to be believed.
Mind you, I am sure I look very handsome – sleek and black against the white. Certainly I leave very pretty footprints. Perhaps snow is not too bad – aesthetically speaking, that is. The footprints will be useful – or I hope they will. I’m not certain what I will do if this latest attempt proves a failure.
The night is peaceful, with nothing to disturb its stillness but the shush and hiss of the waves at the base of the cliffs, and the whispering fall of snow.
The king’s quarters are on the quiet side of the castle – its walls rising straight from the cliffs with nothing beneath them but a dizzying drop to the sea. Despite this, one can clearly hear the cannon fire and screaming that rises daily from the battlefield beyond the courtyards. The noise used to bother the girl. She used to cover her head with a pillow; her mother would encourage her to sing, and so they would attempt to defeat the cacophony of war with nothing but nursery rhymes and hymns. At such times, I was never certain which irritated me more: the soldiers’ crashing about or the women’s enthusiastic warbling. It was all enough to make one want to jump into the sea.
Ah well, such sounds have not troubled me for a while. These days all is stillness, even during daylight hours – stillness and listening, and besieged humans anxiously peering from watchtowers of burnt stone to the scattered flicker of the campfires on the other side. They are waiting for something; some great final moment that their enemies are constructing beyond the wall. The last explosive step in this hungry war. It will end them all. They are powerless to stop it.
I could walk round the battlements, if I chose, and reach the front of the castle that way. The sentries used to like me to do so. “Féach!” they would say. “Caitín an bhanprionsa.” “Look! The princess’s little cat.” Even during battle my presence used to cheer them. I have had soldiers pet me and croon to me even as they hid from rains of arrows. I have had them share their hasty dinners, gently offering scraps of meat with fingers stained with human blood. There have been no dinners for many a day now, and the soldiers have grown less than kind. So I no longer bother with them. Instead, I pick my way across the moon-bright roof, heading for the broken wall that will be my stairway to the ground; its tumbled stones make a convenient shortcut down into the courtyard.
There is much rubble down here now. It makes getting from place to place an interesting experience. For a while, rats abounded, sneaking and skittering about within the debris. I quite like the occasional rat. They are fun to fight and are very tasty. But the humans have long since eaten every one.
Selfish creatures.
Through the bombed-out tennis courts I go, across the ruined chapel, and up to the top of the graveyard wall. Everything here is fattened by the snow; the tall grave-markers and the flat-topped crypts. Even the stone angels are gentled by it, their outflung wings made soft and softer still as the great white flakes sift down.
Within the graveyard the girl is playing tennis. She has only one racquet these days and no partner to play with, so she hits the ball again and again against the graveyard wall. Even to my sensitive ears, the toc, toc, toc of ball against stone is barely audible. Even to me it is a lonely sound. I meow, hoping the girl will look up. But she does not.
She is the last remaining child. After the bombing, the king had all the others lowered down the cliffs in baskets, and taken in boats to who knows where. I was not sorry to see them go, of course, but I do feel a certain pang for the girl. She always enjoyed other children’s company, and …
Bah. This is pure foolishness. Even had they stayed, they would have been of no use to her. Not now. Still. I should like the girl to be a little more cheerful. I meow again, quietly this time, as I gaze down at her, then I continue my journey onwards.
The girl’s mother is seated on a stone bench at the corner of the graveyard. She is, as always, staring up at the tower where her husband sits – both of them waiting in vain for the other to visit. But he cannot see her; she cannot see him. What possible use are they to each other now? She is nothing but a glimmer within the ivy-clad shadows as I trot unseen above her. At the end of the wall I glance back, but of course neither mother nor girl is aware of my presence. As I slip down between the stones the sound of the girl’s game follows me. She will play all night, as the mother will sit all night, soft shimmers among the graves until the morning sun erases them.
The king thinks that every possible hole and crevasse in his great castle has been blocked against the threat of invasion. This may be so if one is human. But I am a cat. I come and go as I please. I creep into the narrow places, the tunnels and culverts that exist unseen and mostly forgotten beneath the heavy castle wal
ls.
Under the moat I go, through seeping darkness that is almost impenetrable even to my eyes. Within moments, I emerge into the crystalline beauty of an open field of snow. Once again, I am struck with the freshness of the air outside the castle walls. I pause to breathe it in. There is no smell of blood or human terror here. There is only the bright clarity of the moon, and the snow falling to blanket the dead and pillow the edges of shattered war machines.
I cross the treacherous stretch of ground that humans call ‘no-man’s-land’. The footprints I leave on the snow’s new surface are sharp and clear; they mark an unmistakable path leading back the way I’ve come.
Surely he cannot fail to see it this time?
The air remains fresh for only a while; then I am within the enemy camp. It stinks as badly here as it does inside the castle. War has such a putrid smell; there is nothing natural to it at all. I know I am not safe here. On a previous visit, I was almost caught – by a snare, if you can believe my being so stupid; a vicious loop of wire that closed about my neck and from which I barely escaped. I would have ended up in some soldier’s stew pot, I have no doubt. Or roasting on a spit above a sputtering fire. The humans here are no better off for meat than those inside the castle walls, and cat meat is as tasty as any when a soldier’s belly is stuck to his backbone. So I avoid the pools of orange firelight and, slinking between the icicle-hung tents, I stay outside the radius of murmured conversations until I get to the boy.
He is as I have found him every night – hunched in the corner of a ramshackle tent, trying to clean the rust from a pile of discarded armour. He does not notice the snow drifting in through the ragged walls. He does not notice the splintered table or leaning tent poles, or the air of lonely isolation that hangs about this bombed-out place. He only notices the pile of armour and how rusted it is. He only knows how badly he needs to clean it. The man who owns this armour is a bully – worse, he is a coward – and therefore much inclined to prove his strength by hurting those smaller than he. The boy is frightened to stop his work. If he cannot clean these pieces of metal – these meaningless pieces of metal – he knows the man will beat him.