The Icegate of Spyre

by Allan Frewin Jones

  “You addlepated, woolly-headed, bone-bonced, thick-skulled, pea-brained nincompoop!” Esmeralda finished, finally running out of breath.

  “Encore!” shouted Ishmael, applauding loudly. “Bravo! Bravissimo!”

  Esmeralda let out a scream like a kettle coming to the boil and had to be restrained by Jack from hitting Ishmael over the head with the biscuit tin.

  Trundle gazed around at this new environment. The upper branches of the huge jungle tree were hung with odd-looking little dwelling places, linked by narrow stairways and bridges. These tree houses were made from dark wood and were very thin and crooked and pointy and angular, with high-arched doors and windows that glowed with a warm red light.

  In the distance, similar lights burned in other trees, flaring in the gloom of the gathering evening. This part of the jungle was obviously home to quite a sizable clan of the large bats.

  “Well, we can’t stay here,” Esmeralda said after taking a few long, slow breaths to help her calm down. “The Thief in the Night is a total wreck, of course. We’ll have to abandon her. It’s a long climb down, but we’ll salvage what we can and make our way out of here on foot.” She glared daggers at Ishmael. “Thanks to you, nitwit!”

  “Many a mickle makes a mackerel,” Ishmael remarked.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “Pardon me,” said the first bat. “I really wouldn’t go down to the ground if I were you. That’s not a good idea at all.”

  “We have to get to Downtown,” said Jack. “We’re on an important quest.”

  “How thrilling!” said a second bat. “But the night is drawing on, and the beasts will soon be waking up.”

  “And if you go down there,” the first bat added, pointing groundward and shuddering, “you’ll get eaten all up right down to your toe bones.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” chorused more bats, gathering around them. “They’ll chew you up and spit out the gristle. It’s what they do, those beastly beasts!”

  “They eat the flowers of the dark lotus plant,” said the first bat. “And the dark lotus does fearful things to even the most sweet natured of folk!”

  “It drives them out of their minds,” said bat number two. “Mad as a dancing plum cake!”

  “Then Ishmael should be right at home down there,” grumbled Esmeralda. She eyed the bats. “Are the beasts really that dangerous?”

  “At night they are,” said the first bat. “But they sleep during the day, so you’d probably be safe once the sun comes up again.”

  “Spend the night up here with us,” suggested another of the bats. “You can set off at first light.”

  “And you could have a nice cup of tea before you bed down,” said another.

  “Yes—our special tea,” said yet another.

  “Our special tea is our specialty,” chorused the rest. “Oh, please, don’t go! We so seldom have guests. Please stay!”

  Trundle and Esmeralda and Jack looked at one another.

  “Oh, why not?” said Esmeralda. “I could just do with a nice cup of tea, as it happens. But we do need to be up and away first thing!”

  “Ouch!” grumbled Trundle, wriggling under his blanket. “Stop it!” Something was tickling his neck just under his right ear. And he had been so happy and cozy, dreaming pleasant dreams about cream buns and feather beds. He had quite forgotten that he was sleeping in a bat house at the top of a jungle tree. Being woken by some dratted insect nipping at his neck was just too much.

  “Don’t wake up,” whispered a voice close to his head. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Eh?” Trundle turned over, to meet the round amber eyes of one of the bats. He blinked a couple of times, gazing in a puzzled and sleepy way at the creature’s mouth, which hung open to reveal a pair of long white fangs with drops of blood on their tips.

  “Hey! What are you up to?” Trundle yelled, pushing the bat away. He put a paw to his neck and felt two little puncture marks. “Were you drinking my blood?”

  “No, of course not,” said the bat, wiping its mouth. “The very idea!”

  “Yes, you were!” howled Trundle. He took a mighty breath. “Help! Help! Vampire bats! Dirty great blood-sucking vampire bats!” And with that, he leaped out of bed, grabbed his sword, and waved it at the disappointed-looking creature.

  “Don’t be like that,” the bat said. “We’re not greedy. We only want half a cup of fresh blood from each of you. Just to flavor the tea!”

  “Fiends!” Trundle heard Esmeralda shout from a nearby house. “Fiendish blood-sucking fiends!”

  “Unfang me, you cad!” Jack roared from another part of the tree.

  “A curse on your poultry old beanbag!” hooted Ishmael. “That’s my favorite throat you’re chewing on!”

  Trundle poked his sword at the retreating bat. “Get back, you monster!” he shouted indignantly. “You’ll get no more blood out of us. It’s an outrage—feasting on guests, indeed! I’ve never heard the like!”

  A bat came somersaulting out of Esmeralda’s house and went crashing away down the tree. She emerged, dusting her hands together. “Time to get out of here, folks!” she said. “Beastly beasties are better than bloodthirsty bats!”

  “I’m terribly sorry about the inconvenience,” said Trundle’s bat. “But the simple fact is”—and his eyes shone with a dangerous orange light—“we … need … blood!”

  And all of a sudden the tree was filled with staring orange eyes as the dark and shambling bats came swarming in from every direction.

  “We … need … blood!” they chorused.

  “Not on your nelly!” Jack cried. He grabbed Ishmael by the collar and scrambled over to where Trundle was standing, still waving his sword. A couple of moments later, Esmeralda had also joined them.

  The bats were closing in. “We … need … blood!” they all sang out.

  “Down we go!” announced Esmeralda, and without further ado, the four companions began a frantic and hectic descent of the tree.

  “Don’t go!” howled the bats, climbing down after them and getting a bit too close for Trundle’s liking.

  “We … need … blood!” they sang out. “We … need … blood!”

  Thinking about it later, Trundle was amazed that he and his friends didn’t break their necks, the way they went hurtling down that tree. But fortunately it offered plenty of handholds on branches and hanging vines, which they were able to grab as they flung themselves downward, the bloodthirsty bats racing after them.

  Trundle wondered at first why the wicked creatures didn’t simply take to the wing to catch up with them, but he quickly realized that there were far too many obstacles in the way. Any bat trying to fly would simply have crashed into the tangled branches.

  As they drew closer to the ground, the bats became fewer and fewer until only one remained, goggling dejectedly down at them. “Aww!” it shouted. “No fair! Come back, tasty guests. Don’t go getting eaten by beasties! It’ll be such a waste of good blood. Come back!”

  “Flap off, fang face!” called Trundle as he clambered from the final branch and dropped lightly onto soft, mossy ground.

  The others came plopping down around him.

  “Well, here’s a fine pickle!” Esmeralda stared at the others. “Who’s got the crown?”

  There was an awkward silence, broken by Ishmael.

  “An empty vessel gathers no moss,” he said helpfully.

  “We were in a bit of a rush,” Trundle said unhappily, remembering that the precious biscuit tin had been in his possession when he had gone to sleep.

  “Oh, marvelous!” groaned Esmeralda. “Well, it can’t be helped. And we can’t go back up for it now. I’m sure the Fates will show us how to retrieve it later.” She patted Trundle on the shoulder to let him know she didn’t blame him. “So? Anyone see any beasties?”

  They all stood very still, hardly even breathing as they stared through the jungle for any sign of movement in the deep darkness.

  “There’s no smoke withou
t weasels!” Ishmael said loudly.

  “Will you pipe down?” growled Esmeralda. “Do you want every beast for ten miles to hear you?”

  “What’s that over there?” asked Trundle. He pointed away through the great tree trunks. “It looks like lights.”

  “Ohhhh, yeeeeessss,” breathed Esmeralda. “Kind of purpley-mauvey-violety lights. I see them.”

  “A town, perhaps?” suggested Jack. “Full of civilized people who don’t bite a chap in his sleep?”

  “Or full of fearsome beasties who will eat us up to our toe bones,” Trundle observed.

  “I’m not at all sure there are any beasties,” said Esmeralda. “I think those dratted bats made them up to keep us in their tree. Come on, everyone—let’s go check it out. Jack, keep an eye on Ishmael. He’s a pain in the prickles, but I wouldn’t want him to go wandering off and fall in a swamp.”

  They set off toward the light, Trundle in the lead with his sword ready—just in case the beasts were real. He advanced cautiously, his eyes constantly scanning the jungle for any glimpse of savage beasts. Not a peep. If there were any beasts at all, they must have been busy somewhere else.

  It wasn’t long before they found themselves heading down into a long, steep, narrow valley. The violet lights were dead ahead, glowing a little eerily in the deep, dark jungle night. As they approached, it became obvious that these were not the lights of a town at all. In fact, the weird gleam came from the large, hanging flower heads of a colony of tall purple plants.

  “Uh-oh!” murmured Jack. “I think these are dark lotus plants. We’d better not get too close. Remember what those bats told us—eating them drives people crazy.”

  “I hardly think we’re going to stop off for a petal sandwich,” said Esmeralda.

  “You can’t believe everything you read in rooks,” Ishmael remarked.

  “I don’t fancy climbing all the way up that hill again,” Trundle added. “And there’s no other way forward. Look, there’s a path through the flowers! We’ll be fine.”

  Esmeralda picked up a long stick from the ground. “If any plant tries to give us a hard time, I’ll whack it on the stamen!”

  Forming a line, they began to make their way through the towering ranks of the purple-petaled flowers.

  Trundle wrinkled his nose. There was a musty and moldy smell in the air. He heard rustlings and creakings. The looming plants leaned over them, their petals like fleshy lips, their leaves twitching like thin fingers.

  “I’m not sure this was such a very good idea after all,” he said. “Perhaps we ought to go back.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jack, looking over his shoulder. “I’m not sure we can.”

  They all looked back. The plants had moved, blocking the pathway behind them.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, you weirdo weeds!” exclaimed Esmeralda. She hefted the stick in her two paws and gave the nearest of the dark lotus plants a hefty swipe right across the side of its flower.

  The rustling and creaking grew louder as fine purple pollen came raining down over the four companions from the head of the walloped flower.

  “Not sure that was a great idea,” Jack said uneasily.

  Half blinded by the pollen and sneezing frantically as it filtered into his snout, Trundle blundered about, waving his sword randomly and yelling. “Get your filthy fronds off me, you perfidious plants! Have at you! Have at … have at—atchoo!”

  He was aware of the voices of the others, yelling as they stumbled this way and that, coughing and sneezing and flailing their arms about to try and fend off the drifting pollen.

  And then he lumbered headfirst into something hard and solid, and all the violet lights went out with a bang!

  Trundle found himself wandering aimlessly through the tall, dark lotus plants. It was still nighttime, but a gleam on the horizon suggested the sun would soon be up. The others were there as well—but they were behaving in a very odd fashion.

  Esmeralda was racing madly around and around a tree trunk, flapping her arms and laughing her head off at nothing in particular. And Jack was sitting on the ground, bowing his rebec and serenading a passing beetle.

  They’ve both gone quite potty, Trundle observed to himself. How very sad for them. Still, there’s no smoke without weasels, as Ishmael would say. He paused for a moment. What a very wise old fellow Ishmael is! he realized suddenly. I must mention that to him next time I see him. “Oh, lawks!” This final yelp was due to the fact that a whole swarm of murderous pirates had suddenly come pounding toward him through the dark lotus plants, waving cutlasses and firing off pistols and muskets.

  Trundle just had time to notice the pirates were pouring out of a large gray windship that lay at an awkward angle in among the trees, before he turned tail and legged it at full tilt through the jungle. He swished his sword behind him every now and then, but he could hear the hollering pirates gaining ground. Any second now, they’d be upon him, and that would be that.

  Curses! he thought. What a way to go—pummeled to paste by a posse of pesky pirates while my best pals in all of the Sundered Lands have gone stark mad!

  A thin, long-eared figure stepped out in front of him, one paw held up decisively. Trundle skidded to a halt so as not to cannon straight into Ishmael.

  “Out of the way!” he screeched. “The pirates will get us both!”

  Ishmael raised an eyebrow. “There are no pirates, Trundle, dear boy. They’re all in your mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” spluttered Trundle. “They’re all over the jungle—and they’re out for blood!” He barged into Ishmael, sending him spinning. “Run for it!”

  A moment later he was aware of Ishmael pattering along beside him. “Listen to me, Trundle,” said the hare. “You and Esmeralda and Jack are having hallucinations brought on by that darned pollen. I seem to be the only one completely unaffected by it. Now do pull yourself together, there’s a good chap.”

  Trundle blinked at him. Ishmael was talking nonsense! And him being such a sensible fellow, usually. What a terrible shame.

  “You’re not thinking straight, Ishmael,” he puffed. “Your mind has been messed up by that dark lotus pollen. I’ll look after you, though, never fear. Just keep running!”

  Ishmael let out a heavy sigh. “I’m very sorry, dear boy,” he said. “But you’ve gone off your rocker. I obviously need to do something drastic to snap you out of it.”

  A firm paw grabbed Trundle by the collar, and he was jerked off to one side.

  “No! Wait! Stop it! Let go!” wailed Trundle as he was dragged unceremoniously through the undergrowth. “What are you doing? We’ll be caught by the pirates!” He swiveled around in Ishmael’s grip, swinging his sword at the looming pirate hordes.

  “My deepest apologies,” said Ishmael. “Just remember—this is for your own good.”

  Trundle felt himself spun around. He saw a great stretch of brown swampy water right in front of him. He teetered on the bank for a moment, windmilling his arms. A hand gave him a hefty shove in the small of the back. He lost balance and, with a howl, toppled face-first into the water.

  Splish! Splash! Sploosh!

  “Urgggle!” spluttered Trundle, floundering in the thick brown water. “Guggle! Gurrg! Ptooey!” He glared up at Ishmael. “You big twit!” he yelled. “What did you do that for?”

  But before Ishmael had a chance to answer, the pirates reached the soggy swamp and began, one by one, to leap and jump and dive into the water, laughing and shouting and sending up great spouts of dirty spray that half swamped poor Trundle.

  And then, as if marauding pirates weren’t enough, Esmeralda’s aunt Millie came thundering to the brink of the swamp, leaped high, wrapped her arms around her shins, and came cannonballing into the depths like a great big sack of doorknobs.

  Trundle’s head disappeared under Aunt Millie’s tidal wave.

  Doomed to die in a filthy jungle swamp, he thought as the water engulfed him. What a miserable way to go! Farewell, cruel worlds! Farewell!<
br />
  Trundle lifted his snout above the water, coughing and spitting. He gazed around, entirely befuddled. Apart from the odd water snail clinging to his prickles, he was alone in the swamp. Of the pirates and of Esmeralda’s aunt Millie, there was no sign.

  “How very curious!” he gasped, wiping weeds out of his eyes and paddling for the bank.

  Ishmael was also gone.

  “Why, I do believe that clever old hare was right,” Trundle spluttered. “My brain was all bunged up with dark lotus pollen. I imagined the whole thing!”

  He heard a disturbance in the jungle, and a few moments later Ishmael appeared, carrying a struggling Jack by the scruff of his neck and by the seat of his trousers. “My deepest apologies,” he puffed, bringing Jack to the water’s edge and then swinging him back and forth a couple of times to work up some momentum.

  “I have to get back to my audience!” howled Jack. “I was about to give them my rendering of ‘Advance Ye Voles’ with alternative verses.”

  “Later, perhaps,” gasped Ishmael as he released the squirming squirrel.

  Jack glided in a graceful curve through the air and splashed into the swamp, a few feet away from Trundle.

  “Ishmael,” Trundle called, rising and falling on the seething water. “I’m in my right mind again. It worked!”

  “T’riffic,” panted the old hare. “Now for the hard part.” So saying, he turned and walked determinedly back into the jungle.

  Trundle knew exactly what he meant: Esmeralda still needed a dunking. He didn’t envy Ishmael that particular duty!