Blue Fire and Ice

by Alan Skinner

  ‘Youse are welcome!’ he cried with a broad smile on his face. ‘Back from yer adventure fightin’ the blue fire, are ya?’

  ‘Hello, Patch,’ said Crimson. ‘I hope we aren’t interrupting you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ the pirate assured them. ‘Just keepin’ me weather eye out fer storms and such, like. From the crow’s nest I can see all the way down to the ocean. Nary a glimpse of a pirate vessel anywheres on the horizon and the weather is fair. Will youse take a cup of coffee with me?’

  ‘That would be lovely, Patch,’ said Crimson.

  ‘Sit yerselves down, then, and I’ll get the coffee. It’ll take a few minutes, like. Youse can’t rush good coffee. There, Crimson, sit here. That’s me special chair.’ Patch fluffed the cushions on a large, comfortable armchair with a deep, winged back and ushered Crimson into it before going into the kitchen to make the coffee. There was a matching chair nearby that seemed much less used and cushions that were not so plump.

  Patch returned several minutes later carrying his best tray. On the tray were a porcelain coffee pot adorned with sailing ships, three matching porcelain mugs and a plate of home-made peanut butter biscuits. He placed the tray on his coffee table and drew up a small cane chair from the corner. With great precision and care, he poured the coffee, gave it to his visitors and offered the plate of biscuits.

  ‘These are delicious, Patch,’ said Grunge.

  ‘Thankee,’ said Patch. ‘’Ave another. Now, what brings youse to me?’

  While they drank their coffee and ate their biscuits, Crimson and Grunge related all that had happened in Beadleburg and told him of the mysterious woman. The only thing they left out were the words spoken to Crimson. Patch listened and was on his fourth biscuit by the time they had finished.

  ‘It’s a shame, like,’ he said, shaking his head and picking crumbs off his trousers, ‘about me legs and Sky’s arms. If that hadn’t happened, Reach would’ve had ’er fer sure. She’s a strong one, that Reach.’

  Grunge leaned forward in his chair. ‘We need to find out who that woman might be and where the blue fire comes from, Patch. We hoped you might have some idea. You know all our old stories. It must have something to do with the past. That’s why she burns the old buildings.’

  Patch shook his head. ‘Well, I ain’t never heard about a lady like that, nur the blue fire.’ He shook his head. ‘Never.’

  Crimson sighed. ‘We’ll try the school next. Maybe we can find something in the history books that they didn’t teach us.’

  Patch’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Books? Why didn’t youse say so? If you want ta look at a book, there’s only one ta look at. I only knows made-up tales. Now, who’s ta say that the tales in this book aren’t made up, like, but who’s ta says they ain’t?’

  Crimson frowned. ‘What book, Patch?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ said Patch. ‘Why, Meddle’s book, of course.’

  He noticed the blank looks on the faces of Grunge and Crimson. ‘Y’ain’t gonna tell me that youse ’ave never heard of The Book of Meddle?’ he said incredulously. ‘Ah, well, p’raps youse haven’t. Weese ain’t so good as weese should be in rememberin’ what weese have.’

  Patch poured another coffee and leaned back in his chair. ‘Even meself, I ain’t looked at it for a long time. Maybe I is the only Muddle left who knows weese has it.’ He looked at his visitors. ‘Theys named the river that runs through Home after Meddle, they did. He lived, oh, a long time ago, ’undreds and ’undreds of years ago, like. Ain’t sure what he were. Maybe he were a musician, like you is, Grunge, or a coffee taster, or a teacher. Or maybe he was jist a storyteller. But he wrote down all our old tales and stories, our history, like, or as much of it as he knew. And when he finished the book, theys had it bound in fine leather, brown ’n’ soft, like, with red edges and gold paint on the ends o’ the pages. A fine-lookin’ book it is. And inside theys wrote, “This book is the gift of Meddle, who from this day will flow through our town and memory”’. Patch sighed. ‘Guess theys overestimated our mem’ries.’

  ‘Where is The Book of Meddle, Patch? Where is it kept?’ asked Crimson.

  ‘What a question, Crimson!’ cried Patch. ‘In the lib’ry, a-course. Wheres else it’d be?’

  Crimson and Grunge looked at each other. Grunge could see the eagerness in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Patch. To the library, then. Maybe the book will tell us something,’ he said.

  ‘And thank you for the coffee and biscuits. We’ll let you know if we find anything,’ said Crimson.

  ‘Youse are both welcome.’ Patch opened the front door. ‘Mind the plank, now.’ He watched Crimson and Grunge cross the bridge and then waved to them. ‘Look fer the book up the stairs and right at the back, like.’ Patch chuckled. ‘It’ll be the one with the most dust on it! And let me know if youse find any good stories ta tell!’

  Crimson and Grunge walked back through Home. The library was past the Common, sited between Page’s bookshop and Buckle’s boot and shoe store. The bookshop was one of Grunge’s favourite places but for once he didn’t stop to look at its display of large leather-bound books and colourful paperbacks. They walked up the broad stone stairs of the library, through the portico with its carved pillars, and through the great wooden door that led into the library reading room.

  Like any library, Home’s was filled with rows and rows of books of all shapes and sizes. Grunge loved the library and the air within; it had a solemn, musty fragrance that he breathed as if he was breathing words on thousands and thousands of pages.

  Past the rows of books and the impressive librarian’s desk, right at the back, was an old staircase that led to the upper floor. Crimson and Grunge climbed the staircase, hearing the squeak of the steps, unused to feet on them. Hardly anyone ever went up to the archives, where old books and manuscripts had been carefully stored. Remembering Patch’s instructions, they walked past the shelves and headed for the back corner. The light from the windows was drawn into the dark books and was soft and dim. The shadows from the shelves spread across the floor and walls, and the friends trod quietly through the faint light. As they neared the corner, the shelves stopped, allowing the light from one window to fall directly in the corner.

  There, in a pool of amber sunlight, was a grand mahogany bookcase with glass doors. Wider than Grunge’s outstretched arms, and taller than him by at least a head, the bookcase was divided into two sections, an upper half and a lower half, and was crammed with books.

  ‘It must be in there,’ Crimson whispered. ‘You look in the top. I’ll take the bottom.’

  Slightly swollen with the dew of time, the doors creaked opened. On the shelves were stacks of long tubes. Crimson chose one and drew it from the shelf. It was paper, kept rolled by a piece of green string around its middle. Crimson knew it couldn’t be the book they were searching for, but her curiosity forced her to untie the string and unroll the crackling paper.

  Above her, Grunge’s eyes scanned the books. Of various sizes and thickness, most were bound in leather. Many had gilt lettering on the spines, impressed into the soft leather. There were books of red, of brown, of deep green and faded black. A book, larger than the others and bound in plain brown leather, had the title, The Encyclopaedia of the Land. Another, smaller book of rich red leather had stamped on its spine, The Art of Coffee Making. Grunge drew out one heavy book and saw the front bore the words, A Fantastical History of Pirates and their Ships.

  He replaced the book and continued scanning the shelves. His eyes stopped on a book with a plain spine. It was a thick book, its leather dark brown. Holding it carefully in his left hand, he looked at the front. In faded gold letters, he could see the title: The Book of Meddle. He opened the front and read the inscription. ‘This book is the gift of Meddle, who from this day will flow through our town and memory.’

  Grunge closed the book and turned to speak to Crimson. He saw her sitting on the floor, untied rolls scattered around her and one of the rolled papers
spread out in front of her. It was a map of the Land and across the top, in very old writing, were the words “Muddlemarsh, the Western Plains.”

  Crimson’s eyes met Grunge’s. ‘They’re maps,’ she said quietly. ‘Maps of Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia, maps of Beadledom and the whole Land!’

  Grunge held up the book in his hand. ‘I’ve found it, Crimson. Meddle’s book. It’s really here.’

  Crimson nodded and reluctantly rolled up the maps and put them back on the shelves. ‘There’s such a lot here, Grunge. We’ve been left so much. How could we forget all this?’ She sighed as she closed the bookcase doors. ‘Well, let’s go and sit at the reading table over there and see what we can find.’

  They sat at the large reading table in the middle of the shelves and switched on the brass reading lights. Grunge put the book in front of Crimson. ‘You should start,’ he said. ‘I’ll look over your shoulder.’

  Patch was right. The book had been forgotten and wisps of dust rose from the pages that Crimson turned. The pages had yellowed and in places small brown spots had appeared. Crimson stopped at the page which listed the contents of Meddle’s work and read down the entries.

  ‘There’s nothing here about fire, or blue fire. I guess we’ll just have to start at the beginning and read it,’ she said.

  Grunge peered over her shoulder. ‘Look,’ he said pointing, ‘there’s a chapter on the High Mountains. According to Wave, the woman headed for the High Mountains. Why don’t we start there?’

  Crimson studied the entry next to Grunge’s finger. ‘The High Mountains: the Land’s Guardian… 438’ it read.

  ‘That’s odd,’ mused Crimson. ‘Why “guardian”? Against what? Why would the Land need a guardian?’

  She turned the pages of the book and started to read, with Grunge reading over her shoulder.

  ‘Listen!’ exclaimed Grunge. ‘”Long ago, the High Mountains were known as the Guardian Mountains”,’ he read aloud, pointing down the page. Crimson smiled. Grunge had always read faster than anyone else. ‘”As the years passed, the people of the Land forgot what the name meant. They became used to calling the mountains as they saw them; high, distant and forbidding. No one ever ventured into them and thus they passed into our lives simply as the High Mountains.”’

  ‘Well, that explains the title of the chapter,’ said Crimson. Grunge didn’t respond, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Let’s see what else it says. And this time … just wait till I catch up with you.’

  They read how the High Mountains stretched from west to east in a long, unbroken range across the northern boundaries of the three lands; of the rugged hills that created a formidable barrier that protected the Lands from the north but also kept the people of the three lands from travelling northward, making the sea the only way leave the Land. They learned how people long ago had ventured into the mountains to explore and discover if anything lay beyond and how few ever returned. They read of the trees that grew there, and nowhere else in the Land; of how the mountains caught the fierce storms that came on the north winds and, before they could sweep down into the Land, turned the storms into gentle rains.

  There were tales of strange beasts that kept hidden until a traveller’s eyes were closed by weariness and would then sneak in and tear them to pieces as they slept; of ferocious creatures that feared nothing and attacked any they saw. They read of gorges in which the winds rushed through with such force that any who ventured into them, whether traveller or beast, was carried in moments to the far end of the gorge and dashed upon the cliffs. There were tales of birds that lived on the highest peaks and which could carry a full-grown bull in their claws, and could swallow a Muddle in one gulp.

  And how, years ago, the people of Home could see fires rage among the highest peaks, fires which burned with blinding brightness for days on end and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Flames that lit the skies above the Land. Blue flames.

  Crimson turned to Grunge. He was staring at her, waiting, a look of excitement in his eyes.

  ‘Grunge …’ she began.

  ‘Read the next paragraph, Crimson,’ he urged her.

  Crimson read on. Meddle wrote of a group of Muddles, Beadles and Myrmidots who had banded together and travelled into the mountains to discover the source of the fire. Six had gone, two from each of the lands; only one returned, a Beadle named Girth. Girth had been renowned for his strength and was over five and a half feet tall. He was found at the end of Bourne Bridge, thin, grey and near death. His clothes were ragged and it seemed that one side of his jacket and shirt had been burned away.

  Poor Girth was never the same after his return and would rarely speak of his journey. Six years after his return, he sat down one day and put on paper the story of the High Mountains. He placed the sheaf of paper in a large, brown envelope and carried it to the library in Beadleburg. Placing it on the librarian’s desk, he left without a word and went home. The next day his lifeless body was found slumped in a chair in his neat little sitting room. In his hand was the only thing he had brought back from his ordeal: a small tin cup that was black inside.

  The librarian had absent-mindedly put the envelope in a cabinet, where it remained unopened. Many, many years later, when the memory of the travellers had disappeared from the three lands, a librarian had found the envelope and opened it. Thinking it to be a poorly written story, he was about to throw it away when he suddenly remembered a Muddle who, he had heard, was writing about the old days of the Land. On a large envelope he wrote “Meddle, c/o Home, Muddlemarsh”, gave the envelope to the driver of the post coach and immediately dismissed it from his mind.

  Girth had put on paper how he and his companions had travelled high into the mountains, until they came to the wide snowfield between two of the highest peaks. There was Lute, a storyteller and singer from Home, who went hoping to find new stories and adventures she could tell to the Muddles; Loam, from the western edge of Muddlemarsh and who was reputed to be better than any at making the coffee trees flourish. With them were Burn the blacksmith and Em the engineer, both from Myrmidia; and finally Girth’s best friend, Staunch, a Beadle, who only went because he went everywhere with Girth.

  They had stood at the edge of the snowfield and looked across its expanse to the peak beyond. The travellers noticed that in parts the snow and ice seemed to be tinged with blue. It must be the sky’s reflection, they decided. What they noticed most, though, was the top of the far peak. It was blue too, but a bright glowing blue.

  They had camped for five days at the edge of the snowfield, searching for the source of the blue fire. On the first few days they explored the field and climbed the blue-capped mountain. The blue ice seemed ordinary, though beneath the ice it rippled when the light was just right.

  On the fourth morning, when the sun was warmer than usual, they watched as a small patch of ice in the middle of the snowfield melted, exposing the rock beneath. The exposed rock glowed, becoming brighter and brighter until, within seconds, it burst into fearsome blue flames. The flames consumed everything around them, even devouring the rain and snow that came and the white ice surrounding the rock.

  On the fifth day, the sun shone more brightly and the air felt less cold. As Girth and his friends cleared away their breakfast things, they heard a great rumbling and the earth under their feet shook. From the peak of the soaring mountain behind them came an avalanche of ice and snow.

  The avalanche crashed through the camp, sweeping away Girth’s companions and all the food and supplies. A large chunk of ice hit Girth and flung him clear of the camp and out of the path of the deadly wall of ice and snow.

  Even the great wall of snow and ice couldn’t quench the blue flames that had sprung from the earth. Girth watched in fear as the terrible flames devoured all the snow and ice around them.

  Another shudder went through the mountains and the blue peak trembled. A great cracking, like the noise of enormous whips, echoed across the mountains as the blue ice shattered. Huge sheets of b
lue ice slid from the mountain and onto the fiery snowfield below.

  The blue ice hit the blue fire and exploded, showering ice and rock into the avalanche. The air hissed and filled with a cloud of blue steam. The injured Girth watched as the blue flames fought the blue ice. A piece of fiery rock, as large as Girth himself, was hit by a chunk of blue ice the size of his hand. The air cracked as the ice touched the rock and the blue fire roared as it fought the blue ice. Shade of blue grew into one another, fingers of flames and vapour mingling. It seemed that the small piece of ice would be no match for the rock but gradually the deeper blue of the fire weakened, then flickered and was gone. The rock itself had melted, leaving a pool of blue water where it had stood.

  It had taken Girth and his companions only four days to travel from Bourne Bridge to the snowfield. It took Girth, injured and mourning the death of his friends, more than eight days to make the journey back to Bourne Bridge. As soon as he was across the bridge, he had collapsed, as if he expected the Land to restore him. He wrote little of his journey back, and Meddle could only guess at what the strong Beadle had suffered on his journey down the mountain.

  ‘I have talked to older folk across the three lands and the story of Girth and his companions is still remembered, though vaguely, by some. Most believe it to be a folk tale, though I have discovered that Girth and his companions did, indeed, exist. The blue fire has not been seen these hundreds of years, and it, too, has faded from our memories. Perhaps it never existed except in legend. Perhaps Girth, confused in the mind by his ordeal and grieving for his friends, entwined the legend with the tragedy to make sense of it. There is no doubt, though, that the High Mountains are a dangerous place and within the high crags and icy peaks there lie many things unknown to us.’

  Crimson and Grunge read Meddle’s words at the end of the chapter.