The Ice Gate of Spyre

by Allan Jones

  They became aware of a squeaking rumble coming from the direction of the kitchen. Moments later, the doors flew open and a large trolley came rolling toward them on shrieking wheels. It was being pushed by three meerkats in stained overalls. On a huge plate atop the trolley sat a steaming rissole—fully half a yard across and at least a foot thick.

  “Complimentary rissole thanks to voucher!” explained Wingnut as the four friends goggled at the vast glistening mound. “Specialty of the house. Pilgrim guests must eat it all up for luck! Very bad manners to leave any.”

  Esmeralda glared at Trundle. “See what you’ve landed us with?” she hissed. “You and your big mouth!”

  Trundle stared uneasily at the enormous rissole as it was loaded onto their table, taking up most of the surface. He gulped and reached for his knife and fork.

  They had some heavy work ahead of them!

  “My stomach feels like I’ve eaten an entire poached walrus, tusks and all,” groaned Jack as the four friends staggered breathlessly up the first few of the One Thousand Steps of Radiant Wisdom, some half an hour later. “What was that thing made of—old cannonballs?”

  “Cousin Rachette, she makes plenty fine stomach filler, yes?” said Wingnut, turning back to grin at his four laboring and lagging pilgrims.

  “Stomach filler?” gasped Trundle. “I feel like I’m full to the eyebrows.”

  “Eyebrows nothing,” moaned Esmeralda. “That stuff is coming out of my ears!”

  “Very tasty,” commented Ishmael, picking at his teeth with an extended claw. “Very sweet. Full of goodness. It went down a treat!”

  “What did I tell you?” said Wingnut. “He’s one big connoisseur of fine food.”

  “Just get us up this staircase,” demanded Esmeralda, clutching her midriff. “And no more distractions.”

  “Sure thing,” said Wingnut, whom Trundle had noticed had not eaten a single mouthful of his cousin’s rissole. “Why not?”

  But the trek up the stairway wasn’t quite that easy. The stairs were full of people coming and going, as well as masses of touts and hawkers and peddlers trying their best to get Trundle and the others to buy their gifts and souvenirs.

  Progress was so slow that eventually Esmeralda lost her temper. She grabbed Wingnut and brought his snout right up to hers. “Now listen here, Mr. Flange,” she snarled. “It’s well past midday. You promised you’d get us all the way up to the top. So snap to it—find us a quicker way, or I’ll tie your ears to your feet and use you as a hoop!”

  Wingnut stared at her in consternation. “You don’t like cultural artifacts and purchasing opportunities on the way to radiant wisdom?” he asked in obvious surprise.

  “No, I don’t!” Esmeralda yelled.

  Wingnut grinned. “You’re one feisty lady,” he said. “I’ll take you on an express route. Not usually for pilgrims, but I’ll do a special favor for good friends, why not? This way for quick trip to top!”

  So saying, he dived off to one side, with Trundle and the others in hot pursuit. He led them through alleys and passageways until they came to a door that bore the legend GARDEN OF SERENITY.

  “We don’t have time for serenity,” said Trundle. “We just need a quick way up this wretched island!”

  “A wretched island is a meal to shake hands with in the dark,” chortled Ishmael.

  “So true,” nodded Wingnut. “Your friend, he’s a clever guy.” He smiled at Trundle. “Not to worry, mister, sir,” he said. “This leads to quick way up—and everyone loves the Garden of Serenity. It is number one pilgrim spot! You’ll see.”

  He opened the door, and they followed him into a small vestibule with yet another door at the other end. The first door closed behind them with the sharp click of a lock.

  “No way back, alas,” Wingnut now confided in them. “Serenity is one-way trip.”

  He opened the door ahead to reveal a small open courtyard absolutely packed with people, shoulder to shoulder. A general hubbub of voices was pierced by the cries of meerkat guides, bearing colored pennants on sticks and yelling instructions.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” exclaimed Esmeralda, staring at the tightly wedged pilgrims.

  “No kidding,” Wingnut called back as he squeezed into the seething and jostling throng. “Follow me! Keep close!”

  “Garden of Serenity?” groaned Esmeralda as she elbowed her way in among the milling hordes. “I’ll give him Garden of Serenity!”

  “Oh, sorry!” said Trundle. “Excuse me!” he added. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, madam, I thought those were a pair of cushions.” He was trying his very best to be polite as he nudged and edged his way through the multitudes crammed into the Garden of Serenity. But it wasn’t easy. As he struggled along in Esmeralda’s wake, he would every now and then get an elbow in the ear or a finger up the snout or a faceful of someone’s anatomy.

  “Lummee!” He heard Jack puffing at his ear. “They go for rather disorderly serenity around here. Excuse me, sir—that was my tail you just stepped on! Ishmael, keep with me, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Out of the flying pig and into the liar, as my old mother used to say!” warbled Ishmael in a crushed-sounding voice. “Steer small, Mister Nibbly! Steer small!”

  “Wingnut?” Esmeralda’s voice rose above the babble of contesting voices.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to strangle you when we get out of this!”

  “Ha ha! You’re one funny lady!”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “We almost through now. Not far to go.”

  Trundle advanced slowly, pushing and shoving and apologizing, feeling like a hedgehog caught in a cider press. Then Esmeralda came to a sudden, unexpected halt, and he rammed into the back of her neck.

  “Oww!” he moaned, wishing he had space to lift an arm to rub his throbbing snout. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” gasped Esmeralda. “There’s a door. Wingnut is just getting a key … and … ahhhhh!” Esmeralda lurched forward, and Trundle and the other two went tumbling in her wake.

  They had fallen through a narrow doorway and were sprawled, gasping, on the floor of a small box-shaped room. Wingnut stepped over them and closed the door on the Garden of Serenity. Then he pulled a metal grill across before turning to them, grinning and nodding.

  “This is the way we move things quickly between bottom and top of stairways,” he explained with a wink. “One Thousand Steps is strictly for pilgrims!”

  They disentangled themselves and got to their feet.

  “There’s no way out,” Trundle said, frowning at their guide. “What’s the game?”

  He was quite right. Apart from the doorway through which they had come, the walls of the little box room were smooth and featureless, save for an odd mechanical device set against the far wall and an eye-level lever-type thing a little way from it.

  “I recognize this,” said Jack, walking to the machine, which had ratchets and cogs attached, and from which extended a long dog-legged handle. “It’s a winch!” He turned to Wingnut. “We’re in some kind of freight elevator, aren’t we?” he said. “I’ve seen these things before.”

  “That’s right!” Wingnut beamed. “Elevator go up, elevator go down. Pretty smooth. Easy to work.” He pointed to the handle. “Turn clockwise, we go to top; turn the other way, we go to bottom. Why not?” He gestured toward the lever on the wall. “That’s a pretty good brake. Must be put on once locking device is taken off and while handle is not turned—otherwise unhappy event occurs.”

  “So let’s get turning,” said Esmeralda. “Trundle, you take the first turn, there’s a good chap. Let us know when your arms get tired, and Jack can take over.”

  Trundle walked over to the winch and stooped to take a firm grip on the handle.

  “You ready?” asked Wingnut.

  “Ready,” said Trundle.

  Wingnut threw off the restraining bar, and Trundle began to turn the handle. Cogs and ratchets clanked a
nd clonked as the elevator slowly wobbled upward.

  For a little while, the others stood and watched Trundle as he strained at the handle. Then they seemed to get bored with that and sat around chatting and listening to Jack as he bowed out a tune in rhythm to Trundle’s labors.

  “How … far … is … it …?” Trundle panted after a while. His shoulders were aching and his fingers were going numb.

  “Little way yet,” said Wingnut.

  Ishmael came and leaned over the winch, gazing at it in fascination and chuckling to himself. “Well, I’ll go to the foot of our gangplank. Who’d have thought it? My, my, my!”

  “Mind your ears!” Trundle warned as the hare leaned in a little farther, but Ishmael was so enraptured by the workings of the winch that he didn’t hear.

  Trundle became alarmed as the long floppy ears came perilously close to the cogs. “Ishmael! Be careful!” he said.

  A spinning wheel almost snagged one of the hare’s ears.

  “Watch out!” Trundle bawled, so distracted by the danger Ishmael was in that he let go of the handle to push the hare back.

  The elevator shuddered. There was a grinding noise, and the handle began to spin quickly in the opposite direction. Trundle had the sensation of his stomach hitting the roof of his skull as everyone began to yell at once.

  “You let go of handle!” shrieked Wingnut. “I told you not to! Unhappy event! We’ll go smash bang wallop at bottom of shaft!”

  The elevator was hurtling downward and rapidly gathering speed.

  “Do something!” hollered Esmeralda.

  “The brake!” Trundle yelled as he was thrown off his feet. “Ishmael! Get the brake!”

  “Leave it to me!” The hare leaped at the brake lever and hung from it, his feet clear of the floor. “Ishmael to the rescue!”

  The winch handle was whirring faster and faster now, and the whole lift was shuddering and jarring so that it was impossible for anyone to keep upright.

  “Old Ishmael, he knows what to do!” yelled the hare, his feet planted on the wall on either side of the brake as he strained backward with all his might.

  “No!” screamed Wingnut. “No pull—turn brake sideways!”

  Too late! Ishmael gave a final wrench at the brake … and it snapped off close to the wall. He lay on his back with his legs in the air, clutching the brake. “I got it!” he crowed. “Ishmael got the brake!”

  “He broke the brake!” howled Jack. “We’re doomed!”

  “No!” gasped Trundle, getting to his knees and managing to draw his sword. “I’ll jam this in the works. That’ll stop us!”

  “Don’t!” shrieked Esmeralda. “That sword is part of the prophecy. You can’t risk breaking it!”

  Trundle stared at her. “But we’ll break every bone in our bodies otherwise!” he shouted.

  “Try this!” Jack crawled across the shuddering floor. With a stricken look, he lifted his rebec in his arms and brought it plunging down into the rapidly rotating cogs of the howling winch mechanism.

  Trundle watched in desperate hope as the machine chewed its way through Jack’s rebec. Splinters of wood flew, and there came the sound of snapping strings as poor Jack fed his prized instrument into the whirring winch.

  But it was working! Gradually the cogs and ratchets slowed. Smoke poured out, and with a smell of scorching wood, the mechanism ground to a standstill and the elevator room stopped shaking and jolting. Trundle felt a firm bump from beneath as the room came to a final halt.

  Wingnut staggered to his feet. “That’s a plenty big piece of luck, there,” he gasped. “Mister Jack is a big hero! Saved all our lives.” Tottering to the metal grill, he dragged it aside and opened the door.

  All the overwhelming cacophony of Downtown greeted their ears.

  “Well, what do you know!” said Wingnut. “We’re all the way down to Boardwall again.” He grinned at them as they started to get up. “Don’t worry,” he said brightly. “I’ll make no extra charge for two trips up! Hey, missy! Why’d you pick up that brake handle? Why are you coming at me with a big scowl on your face? Help! Wingnut want danger money now!”

  The afternoon light was failing fast as the flushed party of pilgrims came at long last to the very top of the One Thousand Steps of Radiant Wisdom. It had taken them almost the whole afternoon to struggle up through the masses of people, doing their utmost to move quickly and refusing all offers of souvenirs and gifts on the way.

  The walls of the monastery rose majestically above them, glowing golden in the light of the fading sun. A path wound up, leading to a white gatehouse hung with red and yellow flags. Its double doors stood wide open, revealing courtyards and buildings within.

  “Made it!” panted Esmeralda, glowering at a rather nervous-looking Wingnut. “Now—get us inside there before the sun disappears!”

  Almost before the words had left her mouth, the thunderous reverberations of a mighty gong broke the calm of the early evening.

  Glonggg! Glongggg! Glo-o-o-onggggggg!

  “What’s that for?” Trundle asked, his paws over his ears.

  “Uh-oh!” said Jack. “Trouble!”

  Even while the deep voice of the gong was still fading, the gates of the monastery slowly swung closed. There was a boom as the doors met. There were the thuds of bolts being thrown across. There was the clank of a key being turned.

  “Oh, hard luck!” exclaimed Wingnut. “Monastery’s closed for the night.” He shook his head. “Most unfortunate. You took too long eating that rissole! I thought so at the time.”

  Jack and Esmeralda and Trundle turned on him, their expressions ferocious.

  “It’s no big problem!” said Wingnut, backing quickly away. “My cousin Threejob runs Rest House of Harvest Prune. He’ll take you in. I can arrange special family rates for you fine people.” He grinned hopefully. “Or maybe I arrange for you not to pay at all,” he gabbled. “Why not?”

  It was a gloomy party that sat on the balcony of their complimentary sleeping quarters, soaking their aching feet in bowls of warm tea and gazing up wistfully at the mountain. It looked really rather spectacular in the starry night, its upper slopes shrouded in white mist, its high peak lost in a veil of cloud.

  “I can’t believe we missed the deadline,” groaned Trundle for maybe the fifteenth time. “And we were so close!”

  “And now the Ice Gate will freeze over again,” added Esmeralda. “And it’ll be a whole year till we can get to the Crown of Ice.”

  This was a most depressing and miserable end to their adventure. Avoiding the pursuing pirates and Esmeralda’s wicked aunty for a few days or weeks was all very well—but for twelve entire months? It simply wasn’t possible. And if they were unable to lay hands on the Crown of Ice, the prophecy would never be fulfilled and all their efforts so far would have been in vain.

  Trundle had the feeling that Jack was the unhappiest of them all. He had sacrificed his beloved rebec, and now he couldn’t even play them a tune to lighten their mood. Trundle looked at the usually merry minstrel. Jack hadn’t spoken for some time. He must be feeling awful. But then Trundle noticed that the squirrel was busy scribbling things down on a scrap of paper resting on his knees.

  “What are you doing, Jack?” he asked. “Writing a sad song about what happened? Requiem for a wrecked rebec?”

  “Not in the least!” said Jack, his eyes unexpectedly bright. “I’ve been doing some calculations.” He sat upright and bawled at the top of his voice. “Wingnut! Hey, Wingnut—get yourself in here!”

  A few moments later, Wingnut arrived, clad in a floor-length nightgown and with a nightcap over his ears, the bobble of which kept swinging to and fro across his face, making him go cross-eyed behind his spectacles.

  “Yes, Mister Jack, sir?” he said uneasily. “Are there more things I can do for you? You peckish? Need a snack? Wish for Wingnut to plump your pillows? Name it and I do it. I feel disappointed that this is my fault.”

  “Cheer up,” said Jack. “You mi
ght be able to make everything all right again if you give me the correct answer to one simple question.”

  “Ask question, I give good answer.”

  “What is the date today?” asked Jack.

  “Today is twentieth of Greengrow,” Wingnut replied. “That was an easy question! Ask another!”

  Esmeralda sat bolt upright, staring at Trundle. “You prize idiot!” she hollered. “You said today was the twenty-first. You worked it out all wrong!”

  “We still have a full day to get to the Ice Gate,” added Jack.

  “Well, I’ll be blowed!” gasped Trundle, not minding in the least being called an idiot under the circumstances. “So I did! Well, that’s the best news I’ve had for a long time.”

  “Toffee makes the donkey’s ears sticky when he sees the fishing rod!” added Ishmael, nodding enthusiastically.

  “Wingnut very happy for you!” Their guide grinned. “I take you into monastery first thing in the morning!”

  “No delays,” warned Esmeralda. “No detours. And definitely no rissoles!”

  “Meerkats’ honor!” said Wingnut, holding up a solemn paw. “You’ll see Ice Gate in the morning. That’s a promise. Why not?”

  The party of five was ready and waiting the following morning when the gongs rang out and the trumpets blared and the great gates of the monastery swung open to greet the new day.

  “Follow me!” declared Wingnut, marching in under the high arch of the gatehouse. “I show you points of interest, why not?”

  “Do it quickly,” said Esmeralda. “Remember what I told you!”

  Wingnut nodded very fast. “Yes, I remember. But this is a very, very historical place. The First Master, he built it a long time ago. Most venerable Master Ramalama.”

  “Ramalama?” said Jack. “Well, I never! The brave chap did make it up here after all!”

  “Good for Ramalama!” Esmeralda added with a low whistle.

  “So the crown ought to be up beyond the Ice Gate still,” said Trundle. “And the Ice Gate is melted right now. All we have to do is go up and get it!”