CELEBRATE STORIES.
LOVE READING.
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For Gilbert,
who is every bit as brilliant as Smudge.
The trouble with grown-ups is that they always think they’re right – about bedtimes and vegetables mostly, but also about beginnings. And, in particular, about the beginnings of our world. They have all sorts of ideas about big bangs and black holes, but if they had come across the Unmapped Kingdoms (which they wouldn’t have because secret kingdoms are notoriously hard to find), they would have learned that at the very, very beginning there was just an egg. A rather large one. And out of this egg, a phoenix was born.
On finding itself all alone, it wept seven tears, which, as they fell, became our continents. These lands, known as the Faraway, were dark and empty places, so, many years later, the phoenix scattered four of its golden feathers across the world and out of these grew secret – unmapped – kingdoms, invisible to those who would go on to live in the Faraway, but holding all the magic needed to conjure sunlight, rain and snow, and every untold wonder behind the weather, from the music of a sunrise to the stories of a snowstorm.
Now the phoenix, being the wisest of all magical creatures, knew that if used selfishly, magic grows strange and dark, but if it is used for the greater good it can nourish an entire world and keep it turning. So the phoenix decreed that those in the Unmapped Kingdoms could enjoy all the wonders that its magic brought, but only if they, in turn, worked to send some of this magic out into the Faraway so that the continents there might be filled with light and life. If the Unmappers ever stopped sharing their magic, the phoenix warned, both the Faraway and the Unmapped Kingdoms would crumble to nothing.
The phoenix placed the Lofty Husks in charge of each Unmapped Kingdom – wizards born under the same eclipse and marked out from the other Unmappers on account of their wisdom, unusually long life expectancy and terrible jokes – and, although in each kingdom the Lofty Husks took a different form, they ruled fairly, ensuring that every day the magic of the phoenix was passed on to the Faraway.
The Unmappers in Rumblestar collected marvels – sunlight, rain and snow in their purest form – which dragons carried on to the other three kingdoms so the inhabitants there could mix these marvels with magical ink to create weather scrolls to send on to the Faraway: sun symphonies in Crackledawn, rain paintings in Jungledrop and snow stories in Silvercrag. Little by little, the Faraway lands came alive: plants, flowers and trees sprang up and so strong was the magic that eventually animals appeared and, finally, people.
Years passed and the phoenix looked on from Everdark, a place so remote and out of reach that not even the Unmappers knew where it lay. But a phoenix cannot live forever. And so, after five hundred years, the first phoenix died and, as is the way with such birds, a new phoenix rose from its ashes to renew the magic in the Unmapped Kingdoms and continue to watch over its creations.
Time went by and the Unmappers grew to understand that every five hundred years a new era began and, as long as the phoenix showed itself to them on the night of its rising, the magic would be renewed and all would be well. Everyone believed things would continue this way forever . . .
When you’re dealing with magic though, forever is rarely straightforward. There is always someone, somewhere, who becomes greedy. And when a heart is set on stealing magic for personal gain suddenly ancient decrees and warnings slip quite out of mind.
But that, I suppose, makes room for stories and for unexpected heroes and unlikely heroines. Because even those born in magical kingdoms can feel unimportant and overlooked, and sometimes it takes a story to show that the truly extraordinary people in this world – the ones who defeat monsters and save kingdoms – are, very often, the ones that nobody notices at first.
So grab your compass and roll down your sail – the first adventure in the Unmapped Chronicles is about to begin . . .
It was midnight in Crackledawn – a midnight full of magic. Sea dragons stirred in the depths of the ocean, rock goblins gathered in Wildhorn bay and a silver whale surfaced beneath a moon so big and round it was a miracle that it still hung in the sky. And, for people like you and me, that might well have been enough magic to make our eyes pop and our legs wobble. But in the Unmapped Kingdoms there is a deeper magic still, a magic so old and full of wonder that even the sea dragons themselves honour it. And it was this magic that the elves on board the dhow moored up in the bay, and the people curled up in their hammocks on the surrounding islands, were waiting for.
‘Any moment now,’ the elf at the bow of the ship whispered.
She was smaller than the rest of Crackledawn’s Lofty Husks and very round, but her ears were so long and pointed, even for elf ears, that you could have hung a coat on them. She hopped from one foot to the other and the elves sitting round the chessboards on deck hurried towards her. A cluster of velvet cloaks, wild white hair and wrinkles, the Lofty Husks watched the sky for the sign that all was well with the Unmapped Kingdoms and the Faraway.
‘Do you think this Rising will be as brilliant as the last one?’ another elf asked as he twizzled his wiry eyebrows. ‘I saw the whole silhouette of the phoenix as it crossed the moon before flying on to the other kingdoms! Five hundred years ago, but I still remember it like it was yesterday . . .’
‘The Rising before that was the best, I thought,’ the round elf said. ‘The phoenix scattered so much stardust from its wings that you couldn’t look at the night sky without blinking! What do you think this Rising will bring, Greyhobble?’
An elf with a monocle, a walking stick and a beard so long he had tucked it into his cloak pocket smiled. ‘What will be will be.’ He paused. ‘But I must confess I do have high hopes for something rather splendid tonight. This is the Rising, after all, a promise from the phoenix that its magic still runs through our kingdoms. And the fact that we are always lucky enough to have the first sighting in Crackledawn, m
eans you can count on it being nothing short of spectacular.’
Greyhobble stroked his beard. ‘I mean, without the Rising, the Unmapped Kingdoms would fall and then who would write the weather scrolls for the Faraway? All those continents left to perish – North America, South America, Europe, Africa, Antarctica, Asia and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What’s the one with all the kangaroos again?’
‘Australasia,’ the elf with the woolly eyebrows prompted.
‘Thank you, Timberdust.’ Greyhobble straightened up. ‘The phoenix entrusted Crackledawn to send sunlight to the Faraway – the very thing that first gave life to the plants, flowers and trees there – so do I think there will be silhouettes and stardust in store for us tonight? Of course! And maybe more. Who knows? We might even catch a glimpse of the phoenix’s golden feathers before it flies on to Jungledrop.’
The Lofty Husks fell silent and watched the moonlight glitter on the sea because they knew better than anyone that a moment of hush was needed to let deep magic in. The silence swelled, the night breathed in and then a breeze drifted through Crackledawn.
It reached the smaller islands first, rustling through the leaves of the palm trees and slipping over the skin of the people who sat, wide-eyed and tingling with awe, in the hammocks strung between branches. Every single one of these people had been born from the sea – washed ashore on the island of Wildhorn as infants in conches – and though they could outswim the strongest currents, sail as fast as the wind and even sprout gills for a few minutes if they chose to swallow a watergum, they slept in hammocks on land because Wildhorn and its surroundings islands had come to feel like home.
The people sat in silence, bundled up in their quilts. The Lofty Husks might have seen many Risings before but for the Unmappers in the hammocks, this was a once-in-a-lifetime event and even the breeze seemed to whisper in wonder. It skimmed across the wooden walkways that led from the smaller pieces of land to Wildhorn, the central island of Crackledawn and the one with the horseshoe bay that sheltered the fleet of dhows used by Sunraiders.
Wildhorn was also home to a number of unusual caves: a ramshackle grotto-turned-pub called the Cheeky Urchin, which the rock goblins ran; an enormous cavern, full of bubbling cauldrons and desks crowded with parchment, known as the Den, where all the sun-chatter – the tiny gold jewels found glittering on the sea floor that whispered the magical sounds of the sun – was stored; and the Warren, dozens of smaller caves connected by winding passageways, containing tables, chairs, leather-bound books and spinning globes, where the Lofty Husks taught young Unmappers how to become a Sunraider (those who captained boats and roamed the seas for sun-chatter), or a Sunsmith (those who mixed sun-chatter with marvels to make ink for the Faraway’s sun scrolls).
The breeze scurried across the deck of the elves’ ship, knocking over several chess pieces, before trailing out to sea. But something lingered in its wake. Something dark and unfamiliar.
One by one the Lofty Husks sniffed the air.
‘Smells like a strange sort of magic,’ Greyhobble whispered. ‘You don’t think—’
His words were cut short by gasps and cheers from those in the hammocks as the moonlight darkened. To the rest of the Unmappers, the night was unfolding just as they’d imagined and so the elves watched on with narrow eyes, hoping that the strange wind meant nothing.
But the silhouette of a phoenix did not appear against the moon. Instead, a darkness crept over it, blotting out its light completely. The night deepened and then there was a screech – a bone-shaking, spine-shivering shriek – that tore through the sky like a knife.
One or two children cried out and the rock goblins gathered on the shore of Wildhorn scrambled into their burrows and disappeared from sight. Then the darkness pulled back from the moon and for several seconds the air pulsed with the thrum of beating wings. Soon this sound faded, too, and once again there was silence.
Greyhobble clutched the side of the ship. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
‘It . . . it could have been the phoenix rising,’ the round elf stammered. ‘If you were squinting and covering your eyes and not really looking at the moon at all . . .’
‘No, Crumpet,’ Timberdust said in a trembling whisper. ‘You know as well as I do that whatever we just witnessed smelled of dark magic.’ He tightened his cape around him. ‘Something rose from the forests of Everdark tonight, but it was most certainly not a phoenix – and, if it wasn’t a phoenix, what does that mean for the Unmapped Kingdoms? And the Faraway? Phoenix magic is what holds everything together!’
‘Hush now, Timberdust.’ Greyhobble adjusted his monocle. ‘We are the Lofty Husks responsible for this kingdom so we must not panic. The fact that we are still standing, and Crackledawn is, too, means all is not lost. Yet. It’s usually a few hours before sightings of the Rising are reported in Jungledrop, so we’ll use our enchanted mirror rings to communicate with the Lofty Husks in the other kingdoms and share what we have seen, then we’ll captain a fleet of boats to scour the seas for any signs of dark magic. And tomorrow, we’ll send the sun scrolls on to the Faraway as usual, because we made an oath to share our magic and we are not going to break it now.’
At his words the rest of the elves stood a little taller, remembering their role and the importance of the work of the Unmapped Kingdoms.
‘We’ll need to ban Sunraiders roaming the seas until we can be sure it’s safe,’ Greyhobble continued, ‘but we’ve got enough sun-chatter stored for the Sunsmiths to use and the Sunraiders can work with us on protective enchantments. But, for the sake of the rest of the Unmappers and the magical beasts in this kingdom, we Lofty Husks must do what we do best.’
Crumpet frowned. ‘Chess? Or ballroom dancing?’
Greyhobble rolled his eyes. ‘It’s hardly the time for a foxtrot below deck, Crumpet. No, now is the time –’ he paused – ‘to be bossy.’
The tips of Greyhobble’s ears wiggled, then he tapped his mouth twice with his index finger – casting an easy spell that granted him a booming voice. He took a deep breath.
‘Sunraiders and Sunsmiths! Rock goblins and sand sprites! Water pixies and cockle imps!’
Greyhobble’s voice echoed across the water and the people in the palm trees, who had been whispering nervously to one another, fell silent.
‘Do not be alarmed by what you have seen. The Rising might not have unfolded as expected, but rest assured we Lofty Husks will work tirelessly to find out what has happened, so that no one comes to any harm.’ He paused.
‘Nonetheless, until a proper plan is set in place, we ask that all Sunraiders refrain from roaming the seas and report to Timberdust, with your spell books, outside the Cheeky Urchin at sunrise tomorrow. For Sunsmiths, it will be business as usual. And please can all under-agers meet Crumpet in the Warren to practise charms and hexes against dark magic. But in the meantime –’ Greyhobble thought of the bossiest thing he could possibly say – ‘please go straight to sleep.’
Now, there are two types of children, both here in the Unmapped Kingdoms and back home in the Faraway, where you are now. There are those who, when told to go to sleep, close their eyes and nod off soon after. Then there are others who, upon hearing those words, close their eyes, then find themselves dangling from a drainpipe a few minutes later. And the girl with the silver nose ring, dark eyes and scruffy black hair who, as others around her did their best to fall asleep, began to clamber out of her hammock was, most certainly, a drainpipe-dangler.
Smudge shuffled to the end of her hammock, then manoeuvred herself on to the rope ladder dangling from it. She placed a foot on the first rung, then began climbing down quietly and carefully – which was pointless really because the monkey curled up on the pillow in her hammock was not asleep, as she thought, but watching her with about as much enthusiasm as a fly who knows it’s going to get squashed.
Unaware of the monkey’s gaze, Smudge carried on climbing down, her mind whirling with what she’d seen that night. While everyone else sitting in
their hammocks among the palm trees had gasped and burrowed under their quilts on hearing the terrible screech earlier, Smudge had kept watching the sky – and she had seen something that it seemed all the others had missed: a large black-winged creature heading out across the sea towards Lonecrag, the rock many miles north of Wildhorn where the most mysterious of sea monsters were rumoured to dwell.
The winged creature hadn’t been a phoenix, Smudge was sure of that, because its shape bore no resemblance to the drawings of the phoenix that Crumpet – the Lofty Husk in charge of educating first-formers – had shown in Beast Anatomy class. This was something else and Smudge wanted to investigate further.
You see Smudge’s mind had a sideways quality to it, never quite managing to focus on the things it was meant to be focusing on. She understood that sunlight was full of secret noises, mostly missed by those in the Faraway, and that it took Sunsmiths years to work out how many hiccups, sneezes, giggles and hums made up the perfect sunrise or sunset. But, while the rest of her class took notes on this, Smudge was most likely to be found watching a glow-in-the-dark lizard scampering through the cave or a silk bat shuffling in the shadows. She was intensely interested in the world around her, but that didn’t seem very helpful when trying to keep up in class.
Her spelling was terrible, her handwriting looked like a series of squashed spiders and, when it came to end-of-year exams or any sort of work that meant organising her thoughts and writing them down, she always ended up bottom of the class. Crumpet had tried to bolster Smudge’s spirits, but even she couldn’t stop Smudge’s classmates sniggering when Smudge accidentally wrote her letters upside down on the chalkboard. Nobody seemed to want to be her friend and not even the monkey that the Lofty Husks had given her last year as a ‘positive influence’ could stop her being late for class, daydreaming through lessons and forgetting her belongings wherever she went.
Smudge’s greatest dream was to head out in a dhow like the Sunraiders with one eye on the ship’s lantern, which glowed gold whenever the vessel sailed over sun-chatter, and the other on the glorious open sea. But the first time she stepped on board a dhow with her class she’d immediately forgotten everything she’d learned, leading to a steering ‘incident’ where she had crashed into a reef. Then, on the day she actually remembered how to steer, a minor lapse in concentration had caused her to forget to swallow a watergum before diving for sun-chatter and she had very nearly drowned.
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