Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  “Harlin,” chided a shocked Elaine.

  “Ye have lot learning to do bout leading with moaning like that,” Bert told him.

  Asher snorted with laughter.

  “What?” asked Bert, missing the point.

  An amused Asher had also noticed the lack of clothing where Elaine and Harlin were concerned.

  “Little warmly?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  Clipper flung himself off the horse, raced up to Harlin and, getting to the heart of the matter, as only children can do, demanded, “Be getting it? The Key?”

  Harlin’s expression told everyone the bad news.

  “Wonderly,” sighed Bert.

  “We finded it, but Harpy… me mother come. Taked Key,” Harlin explained. “Escaping only thanks to Squirrel and friends. Renders still out there, hunting.”

  “Asher, Drevel’s hurt,” Elaine interjected, concerned that her canine friend was trembling beneath her hands.

  Asher inspected Drevel’s wound. “Few stitches and a bowl of Melith’s special broth, he be fine. Bert.”

  The older man limped over to his friend and they carefully picked up Drevel between them, causing the dog to whimper.

  “Shut up whining,” Bert told him, though the look on his face belied his harsh words. “I only have one leg. Ye having lovely time getting stroking from her.”

  Drevel barked softly, making Elaine smile, just a little.

  Bert glared at Harlin. “Keep watching us, childlin. Not mind us, we can manage.”

  Harlin’s eyes went to heaven.

  Clipper’s father helped Bert and Asher to gently drape the sagging Drevel over the horse, leaving room for one more rider. Asher, noticing how Harlin was struggling to conceal his tiredness and pain, told him, “Rightly, on horse.”

  “Why him?” Bert moaned. “He have two legs.”

  “Elaine riding,” Harlin announced, surprising everyone, not least the woman herself.

  “No, thanks,” she stuttered.

  “Moment ago, ye fainting,” Harlin pointed out. “On horse, now,” he continued, in a tone of authority that she hadn’t heard before. She rather liked it, but would never have admitted that to anyone.

  Running out of patience, Harlin tried to manhandle her off the ground, but only ended up groaning with pain.

  “Alright, I’m going,” she told him, mounting the horse behind Drevel and peering down at Harlin with concern. “Will you be alright?”

  “We all be fine, thank ye,” grumbled Bert.

  As Clipper’s father led the horse, Elaine glanced behind her. Three limping men were following. As she watched, the boy innocently took hold of Harlin’s hand in a touching effort to comfort him.

  * * *

  With the silent Frog riding on her shoulder, a tired and distraught Gwyneth made her way back to the cabin in a cold shower of rain; a perfect metaphor for her misery. Her sense of direction remained intact, despite the maelstrom of emotions raging within. Surprisingly, there seemed to be no sentry as they approached, neither human nor animal. Voices were emanating from the cabin itself, none of which belonged to her father or Bert.

  “Not coming back. None of ‘em.”

  “Wait for Asher.”

  “We should go home.”

  “For what? Harpy coming for Elaine. Find out we seen her, we all be snakes.”

  Having had a very bad day, Gwyneth hurled open the door and stormed inside. A group of Elders cowered in the corner.

  “I could be anybone,” she pointed out. “Where be lookout?”

  The Elders all looked suitably ashamed.

  “Where be me father?” she asked.

  “Not know. He and Bert leaved. Not know where,” a random Elder ventured.

  “When coming back?”

  “Wait, be thinking. Ye hear him just say not know?” sniped another.

  “We need rescue Myrrdinus,” Gwyneth stated to a row of blank faces.

  It took her precious minutes to explain what had transpired to Myrrdinus and even more to argue for a rescue. All of it was an utter waste of time. Realising that she had no idea when her father would return and that, in all likelihood, the rescue party numbered two – her and Frog - she left the Elders still arguing in the leaky cabin and stomped back into the forest in a state of apoplexy. Frog gripped onto her shoulder for dear life.

  “Temple or castle?” Gwyneth asked Frog. Myrrdinus could have been taken to either.

  “Rivet,” replied Frog, pointing.

  “Rightly,” Gwyneth agreed. “Temple closer.”

  The brave two marched towards probable doom.

  * * *

  The Queen, still sore, but no longer in any danger, found herself unable to rest. The recent sight of Elaine had magnified her need to recover the Firestone into a burning obsession. She could not wait for Sworder to do his job, inept as he tended to be. She must utilise a back-up plan. She stormed into the altar room, frightening Gergan, who had assumed that he would have a few hours respite from her temper.

  “Get the snakes,” she croaked.

  Barely a minute later, a metal cage was dropped onto the altar with a clang. The contents undulated in panic, except for one, rather fat, reptile who was coiled in a corner, one eye peeping out. The snakes all slithered backwards as the Harpy’s face loomed above.

  “I’m giving you one last chance to avoid the sacrifice,” she told them. “I’ll give you all a message. Search for Elaine. The one who finds her, lives. I may even turn you back. Slither away and escape, I’ll find you and feed you to a render. Understand?”

  Every snake head bobbed in agreement.

  As Elmin furiously wrote messages on parchment with a quill and ink – his being the only writing anyone could actually read – the Harpy threw the cage onto the floor, freeing its captives. The terrified snakes quickly exited the cage, leaving Melith Snake to slither out, endeavouring to surreptitiously drag something metallic beneath her. She could have no such luck; the Queen was revolting, but observant. Melith Snake found herself dangling from the Harpy’s gnarled fist within spitting distance of her bloody eyes.

  “Nice try, Melith,” the Harpy snarled, her eyes alighting on the Key of Old. It lay in the spot just vacated by the snake. Her withering gaze transferred to a cringing Gergan. “What’s that doing there? That your idea of safe?” she shrieked, slapping him round the face with Melith Snake. The Harpy snatched up the Key with her free hand, throwing it up and down as though it were red hot. She stormed out, still swinging the hapless reptile.

  Behind her retreating form, Elmin slid his hastily written messages into the mouth of each snake. One by one they sucked up their letter and slithered out the door.

  Swiftly running out of energy, the Queen shuffled back into her quarters. Although she was choking in the monster’s grip, Melith Snake’s bulbous eyes still watched as her nemesis approached a large wooden chest. It was sturdy enough in construction, but the decoration was rudimentary, sporting roughly carved flowers whose design appeared to have been conceived by a childlike beginner.

  The Queen paused for a moment as an unbidden and unwanted memory arose: a rugged, but kind man who had given her this gift, made by his own war-scarred hand. Tearing open the box, the Queen threw the joined Key of Old inside, banishing the memory. Delivering one last horrendous eyeball to eyeball stare, the Queen shoved Melith Snake into a suspended metal cage, used to torture her latest plaything, and bolted the door.

  As the Queen gingerly lowered herself back onto the fur laden bed, Melith Snake swung gently, peering through the bars, her eyes narrowing.

  * * *

  Grey Squirrel leapt through the trees, his speed making him the perfect advance guard for the returning Harlin and rescue party. The Elders were still whinging and consuming a newly cooked stew, when the furry messenger landed on the cabin roof.

  “Not know what she thinking,” one such Elder was lamenting. “How we rescuing Myrrdinus from renders?”

  “She be back, soon nough,�
�� mumbled another, his mouth full.

  No-one heard the tapping coming from the roof.

  “Hope Asher not back soon. Not like idea telling him.”

  “Nor Bert.”

  The tapping continued, to no avail.

  “Not our fault if all turning dimly. Running in family.”

  There was a raucous, ear piercing squeal as Grey Squirrel swung through the open window and landed in their midst. The Elders scrambled backwards, the latest stew spilling in their laps.

  Outside, Clipper’s father led the plodding Evening up to the cabin, still carrying Elaine and Drevel. Asher, Bert and Harlin limped into view like soldiers returning from battle.

  “Drevel, we’re here,” Elaine told her exhausted friend, gently stroking his back.

  Clipper launched himself through the cabin door. The crash made the quivering Elders jump, yet again. As they watched, the boy rifled through a barely standing cupboard, more rot than wood, until he found a needle and thread. He threw open another drawer with a soggy creak and grabbed a handful of green herbs.

  “What ye doing, boy?” a curious Elder ventured.

  Clipper replied with a one breath stream of consciousness. “Need sew up Drevel he wounded by render Harlin back with Elaine and Asher and Bert all outside renders still hunting but not hearing them on way back so not be near we hope Harlin think Harpy not having Firestone no more this stew?” He grabbed the still steaming pot and dashed straight out.

  “What?”

  Meanwhile, the other invalids had managed to lift Drevel off the horse and were gently laying him down on a blanket, while Clipper’s father fed the smouldering camp fire. Tired to her core, Elaine struggled to dismount. She had managed to drag one leg over the saddle when Harlin lifted her the rest of the way.

  “I know you hurt yourself when you do that,” she scolded.

  “Knowing,” was Harlin’s simple response.

  “Still doing,” Elaine retorted, mimicking his rural accent. Over his shoulder, her gaze caught the Elders filtering out of the cabin, curious as to what the returning rebels had to report.

  No-one was inclined to do any reporting, not whilst there was Drevel to see to. Clipper handed the recently acquired needle and thread to Asher, who handed it straight to Bert, stating, “Ye sew neatly.”

  “Thank ye, Mother,” Bert moaned. “Rightly, Drevel.” He lowered himself next to the dog with a grunt and a great deal of shuffling. “Getting down here, but not getting back up.”

  Elaine helpfully pointed at Harlin. “He can lift you.”

  Bert began sewing up Drevel’s wound. The dog gave a tiny whimper of pain that brought Elaine hurrying to his side. She rested his head on her lap.

  “Ah, that be nice,” remarked Bert. “Be still, smelly fermit. Drevel, not ye.” The last was said to Elaine by way of qualification.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Clipper hung the steaming pot over the newly revived fire.

  “That stew?” asked Asher, thinking that it smelled like a Melith speciality for recovery of the sick. Sure enough, Clipper displayed a handful of herbs and dumped them in the pot.

  “Melith teached healing in village,” Clipper’s father told them, seeing Asher’s expression.

  Just the mention of her name made Asher’s heart ache. Looking around for someone to be angry at, his gaze alighted on the loitering Elders. “Still here, then?”

  They were glancing at one another, trying to decide who was going to deliver the bad news, when Harlin suddenly piped up with, “Queen not have Firestone no more.”

  “What? How knowing that?” spluttered an Elder.

  “She telled us. Me and Elaine,” Harlin stated.

  “What ye doing talking with her?” another Elder asked, in a tone verging on the hysterical.

  “We weren’t having a chat,” Elaine sniped. “She thinks I’ve got the Firestone. I don’t, before you ask.”

  Harlin’s voice gained strength, as though he was bordering on taking authority. “Point be, if Queen not have Firestone, she not able make more renders, nor really control Baal.”

  “Where ye going with this?” an Elder asked, despite already having a fairly good idea.

  “Now be time we wait for,” Harlin told them, the edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

  The Elders were unconvinced by the sudden emergence of bravery in the erstwhile cave dweller. “Ye been up in cave, waiting for nought, not caring what happening here.”

  “Ye not hear me,” Harlin insisted, growing frustrated with their lack of comprehension. “Not bout me. Queen not have Firestone. If she not able…”

  “Ye go for Key of Old,” an Elder interrupted. “Find it?”

  Harlin glanced at Elaine. Their joint expression gave the game away.

  “Ah. So ye losed Key as well as clothes. Harpy have both parts then.”

  That was news to Asher.

  “Both? What ye mean both? Gwyneth and Myrrdinus back?”

  It was now the turn of the Elders to look away and shuffle.

  * * *

  Left alone in the gently swinging cage, Melith Snake waited until the Harpy’s breathing took on the slow and laboured rhythm of sleep, whereupon she manoeuvred her head through the bars and slid her bulbous eyes right and left, measuring the space. Squeezing every breath of air from her body and tightening every muscle, she pushed and pulled, backwards and forwards. Inch by inch, she squeezed the length of her body through the tiny gap, leaving her outer skin behind. She was half way through, dangling from the cage, when the Harpy snorted and shuffled beneath the furs. Melith Snake coiled upwards in an arc, peering at the slumbering Queen, who now lay silent and still once more. She resumed her pushing and pulling until her tail end insisted on trapping itself in the bars. Melith Snake sighed, lamenting that it was always her lot to carry her weight on her hips. She repeatedly yanked at her tail, but there was no movement. She was straining with all her strength when her posterior bulk suddenly shot through the bars with an audible ‘pop’. She landed on the floor in an untidy heap, her tail end stuck in her eye.

  A pair of watering eyes appeared at the bottom of the Queen’s bed, checking on her state of consciousness. Assured of her adversary’s slumbering condition, Melith Snake lowered herself back to the floor and slithered up to the head of the bed. Her eyes were level with the Queen’s when a thought passed through her brain.

  I wonder if I be poisonous?

  Pondering whether to bite the Queen, she concluded that it was not worth the risk. If the wound she could bestow was only annoying and not fatal, she would lose her life, and the Key, for no benefit. Attempted strangulation would involve lengthy physical contact with the witch. There was no time to lament the passing of an opportunity to dispose of her hated enemy. Instead, she slithered her way to the wooden chest and carefully inserted her nostrils beneath the rim. Rippling up the length of her body, she pushed forwards, causing the lid of the chest to rise up just enough to insert the top half of her bulk. With her tail end hanging from the chest, she rummaged through its contents until she spotted the glint of the Key. Twisting her body, she almost tied herself in a knot in an effort to reach it.

  “Morden, I can’t. Please.” It was the Harpy, mumbling in her sleep.

  Melith’s snaky eye ridges rose with curiosity, but she had no time to ponder the Queen’s words. Straining to grasp the exposed relic, she only succeeded in gumming it before it slipped out of her mouth. Grimacing, she half swallowed the joined Key parts and, cheeks puffed out with metal, proceeded to extricate herself from the chest by squirming backwards. Allowing the lid to balance on her nose, she slowly lowered it back into position, the strain turning her scales a fluorescent shade of green. There was an audible click as the lid slotted back into place. A trembling snake head swung round in the direction of the Harpy, but she showed no sign of waking.

  With her prize now lodged in her mouth, Melith Snake undulated over to the door, only to find it closed. Glaring up at the handle and
the bolt above, she strained upwards, but was a long way from reaching it. Snaky eye ridges knotted together in a frown. She peered around the room, trying to locate an alternative means of escape. Spotting a small window, with an even smaller handle, she slithered up and onto the window sill. Drawing in a deep breath through her nostrils, Melith Snake fixed her gaze on the handle, made a concertina out of her bulk and released, uncoiling like a spring. Her head crunched into the handle, turning its lever, but nearly concussing herself in the process. Shaking free of flashing stars and bird song, she gently placed her bruised forehead on the window and pushed. It opened with an excruciatingly long, high pitched creak.

  Taking once last glance at the slumbering Queen, Melith Snake slithered through the open window and dropped onto the earth, beneath. She landed in a bruising heap and, unfortunately, swallowed the Key whole. Pilt.

  * * *

  The camp fire had already burnt itself out by the time night fell around the cabin. On sentry duty, Grey Squirrel leaned against a tree branch, his beady eyes exploring every shadow.

  Inside the mouldy structure, Elaine lay on the floor, covered with a blanket, but unable to sleep. A rumbling snore drew her gaze to Drevel, tucked inside his own blanket. His ears twitched and one turned inside out, making her smile.

  Harlin, whilst also asleep, was far from relaxed. He was slumped against the wall of the cabin, shaking and mumbling, “No. Please. Not know. Not me.”

  Elaine threw off her blanket and shuffled over to him. She whispered his name and softly placed her hand on his arm. He awoke with a start, fighting an invisible enemy. His flailing fist swept past Elaine’s cheek, missing her by inches.

  “I hit ye?” he asked, concern and shame written all over his tortured face.

  “Missed that time,” Elaine joked.

  “No. Not want…” Harlin began, before her sudden hug stopped his words. He clung to her, surprising them both. When he finally opened his eyes, he noticed that they were alone with Drevel. “Where all goed?”

  “Asher and Bert went looking for Gwyneth,” she told him, relaxing her grip a little. “Clipper went back to his village with his father and Evening. They’ll be back in the morning with clothes for us. The Elders slunk away as soon as you nodded off.” Elaine’s expression told him exactly what she thought of that.