by Alan Skinner
‘It’s not a legend, Grunge. We’ve seen it,’ breathed Crimson.
Sadness took her face. ‘Those poor companions. Poor Girth.’
Grunge nodded. He was silent for a moment and then said, ‘The cup that Girth brought back. It was black inside.’ His brow creased. ‘I think it was black because Girth tried to bring back some of the rock that contained the blue fire. It burned the inside of the cup.’
Crimson mulled over the implications. ‘Do you think he did? Do you think someone found what he had brought back and was using it to set the fires in Beadledom?’
Grunge shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think Girth ever got back with the rock. Look.’ Grunge pointed to a passage in the book. ‘It says his clothes appeared burned. I think it burst into flames before he got here. Maybe before he left the snowfield. No, whoever is setting the fires has found a way to get it out of the mountains.’
Grunge paced back and forth, thinking. Crimson sat, her eyes running over Meddle’s description.
Crimson spoke at last. ‘Even if someone could get it out, how can they use it? As soon as it’s exposed to air, it ignites. Whatever they used to carry it, as soon as it was opened, the rock would ignite. But they don’t want it to ignite right away. They want to be able to get far away before the rock ignites.’
‘Then something must stop it from igniting,’ said Grunge.
They stood side by side, scanning Meddle’s book. ‘I think the answer’s in here,’ said Grunge. They read again of Girth’s journey and the days the travellers spent on the snowfield, until the sun started to melt the ice ...
‘The ice!’ they cried together.
Crimson was jubilant. ‘The ice not only puts the fire out, it stops the rock from igniting! The rock ignited when the ice melted!’ Her face dropped in sudden dismay. ‘Oh, but it also says that the fire consumed not just the rain and the snow but the ice around it. It can’t be the ice that stops it from igniting.’
Grunge spoke softly. ‘It is the ice, Crimson. But not just any ice. It’s the blue ice from the mountain top.’ He became more animated. ‘See, Girth wrote that the whole snowfield was tinged blue. They thought it was the reflection from the sky. It wasn’t. It was the blue ice from the peak mixed with the ice on the snowfield.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That’s why the blue fires haven’t been seen for hundreds of years. The avalanche that took the companions, it must have left enough blue ice mixed with the ice on the snowfield to keep the rock from igniting all these years.’
Grunge became more excited. He was sure they were on the right track. ‘I’ll bet Girth managed to collect a piece of the rock from under the ice. He kept the rock covered with the blue ice to stop it igniting. Maybe he spilled the ice or something and the blue fire erupted.’ Grunge stopped, imagining how Girth must have been terrified when the small cup exploded in flames.
Crimson continued for him. ‘As soon as the rock is exposed to the air, it erupts into fire. Remember at Brindle Island? There must have been a piece of the rock packed in blue ice in that cylinder. When it flew into the air, the ice around it melted or fell away and it erupted. That was the blinding flash as it released its heat. And the water makes it worse. It exploded when it hit the water.’
Crimson rose and clutched Grunge’s hand. ‘And that’s how she’s starting the fires. She leaves a piece of the rock packed in blue ice and waits for the ice to melt and the rock to ignite. We assumed there must be more than one person, but she could do this by herself. The more blue ice she uses, the longer until it melts. She can set it in one place and then get to another before the first one ignites. That’s what was in the cylinder. Rock and blue ice!’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Grunge.
Crimson felt excited, certain that they were beginning to unravel the mystery.
‘That’s why there haven’t been any fires lately,’ Crimson continued. ‘She must have lost the last piece of rock in the river. That’s why Wave saw her heading towards the High Mountains. She was going to get more.’
‘If only we knew more about her,’ said Grunge. ‘Who she is; why she is doing this; where she’s from.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll find something in here.’ Crimson looked at the thick book in front of them and sighed. It would take the rest of the day to look through it.
Crimson and Grunge spent the afternoon’s hours reading Meddle’s book. They skimmed through the words, skipping from one chapter to another, following references back and forth across the chronicle of the Land, playing hopscotch with history. Nothing, though, helped them uncover the motive or identity of the mysterious woman. The yellow sunlight through the windows turned to deep gold and then darkened to amber as the sun fell lower in the sky. At last, the only light in the library came from the small desk lamps where they sat.
Well past dinner time, Crimson turned the last page of the last chapter. ‘Nothing,’ she said, disappointed. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and sat back in her chair.
‘It wasn’t likely we’d find anything to help,’ reasoned Grunge. ‘How could anyone today have anything to do with things that happened hundreds of years ago?’
‘If the answer isn’t in the past,’ she said softly, ‘then we have to concentrate on the present. Who is she? We know she’s not a Muddle or a Beadle. But I can’t believe ...’ Yet Crimson couldn’t think of another possibility. Why would Myrmidots want to harm the Beadles?
Grunge nodded. ‘I can’t believe it, either. We need to talk to the Beadles.’ He looked out the window. ‘It’s getting late.’ Grunge patted his stomach. ‘And I need my dinner! Tomorrow, we’ll go to Beadleburg and see Bligh.’ He sighed. ‘And then we need to make another visit.’
‘Visit?’ asked Crimson. ‘Where to?’
‘Myrmidia,’ said Grunge decisively. ‘I think it’s time for a journey to Myrmidia.’
Chapter 8
A Journey to Myrmidia
Brian was sceptical. ‘Girth is a myth!’ he scoffed. It was the day after they had read Meddle’s book, and Grunge and Crimson sat in Bligh’s office. They had taken Home’s orange bus to the border and then waited a few minutes until Megan arrived, precisely on time, to take them into Beadleburg in the Beadles’ shiny bus. The friendly young Beadle had been pleased to see them and they chatted all the way to Beadleburg. Megan dropped them off right at the front door of the council offices, where a very serious-looking attendant had met them.
‘And who do you wish to see?’ the attendant asked, his pen hovering over a large book in which he wrote the names of all visitors.
‘Bligh,’ said Crimson.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the attendant asked.
‘No, we don’t,’ admitted Grunge, ‘but it is very important.’
The attendant looked at them over the top of his glasses, ‘People think that important things are more important than ordinary things,’ he said with great disapproval. ‘But if we stopped doing the ordinary things just to attend to the important things, then all the ordinary things we didn’t do while we did the important things would themselves turn into important things and we’d have to attend to them right away, which would mean that we’d be back doing the ordinary things and not doing the important things. It isn’t,’ he continued with great solemnity, ‘a matter of importance. It’s a matter of appointments. If you have an appointment we know it must be important, whether it is ordinary or important. Understand?’
Neither Crimson nor Grunge did understand, but they nodded anyway.
‘It is rather urgent,’ said Grunge apologetically.
The attendant looked even further over the rim of his glasses, right down to the tip of his nose, and stared at Grunge. ‘Rather urgent,’ he asked, ‘or very urgent?’
‘Very,’ said Crimson, after just a little pause.
‘You should have said so.’ The attendant looked at the appointment book. ‘You’re lucky. Very lucky,’ he said, emphasising the word “very”. ‘Bligh has a free appointment
time for Very Urgent Matters.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘In five minutes,’ he declared, ‘as soon as he has finished his morning coffee.’
The attendant looked at the visitors’ book and then at the Muddles. They looked at the visitors’ book and then at the attendant.
‘Names?’ said the attendant, with great exasperation.
‘You know us,’ said Grunge politely. ‘We’ve been here several times before.’
The attendant gave a deep sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter whether I know you or not,’ he said. ‘It is not who I think you are that matters. It is who you say you are that matters. Names?’
So, five minutes later, they found themselves in Bligh’s office. Bligh sent for Brian to join them, having added Muddle Go-between as one of the official duties of a Factotum, and that the Muddle Go-between must always be present at meetings with Muddles.
Crimson and Grunge told the Beadles what had happened the previous day, (Crimson noticed that Brian twitched when they mentioned Patch), and about The Book of Meddle and Girth and his companions, and the blue ice. Brian was adamant that Girth was a figure from an old folk tale.
‘No one believes that old tale about a tall Beadle,’ Brian said firmly. ‘And I’ve never heard of a story about travellers from the lands going to the High Mountains.’
Sometimes when you know an awful lot, it’s easy to assume that you know everything, and Brian did know an awful lot about Beadledom. He fell straight into the pit of assumption.
Grunge tried to be polite and not argue with Brian. ‘It is possible that it’s just an old tale,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t think so. It all fits too well.’ He looked at Brian and spoke almost apologetically. ‘I’m not surprised you haven’t heard the story. Girth’s tale was passed to
the Muddles.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether Girth is a myth or not,’ said Bligh to his guests. ‘The rest still makes sense. And I think we can draw only one conclusion about where the woman comes from.’ He looked at Brian. ‘Grunge is right. We have to go to Myrmidia.’
‘Now?’ said Brian.
Bligh nodded. ‘Yes. The sooner the better. We’ve not had fires for two nights in a row. We can safely assume that either she has given up, and gone to the High Mountains for more of the fire stone, or she has returned to Myrmidia.’ He checked his watch. ‘It is nearly one o’clock. If we leave within the hour, we will be in Forge in time for a late dinner. I will send a message to Achillia, my friend the Lord Mayor, and make arrangements for us to see her when we arrive in Myrmidia.’
Forge sat in the heart of Myrmidia, about 250 kilometres from Beadleburg. They could take Beadleburg’s bus as far as the border with Muddlemarsh, then catch the Muddles’ afternoon bus to Myrmidia. Once at the Myrmidian border, they would have to leave the bus and board the electrified tram that ran from the border to Forge.
At 1.45 precisely, Megan put the bus into gear, pulled away from the council offices and headed west. On the bus were the usual assortment of passengers; Beadles, going to farms and houses that lay between Beadleburg and Muddlemarsh. In the two rows of seats immediately behind Megan sat Bligh and Brian and Crimson and Grunge. A large picnic basket had been stowed in the luggage rack above their heads. They would be travelling for the best part of six hours, and Brian wasn’t taking any chances.
Right on time, Megan slowed the bus and pulled over to the side of the road. Just ahead lay the border with Muddlemarsh. Megan pulled the lever to open the door and her passengers alighted and bade Megan goodbye.
The four walked past the border tree that marked where one land ended and the other began. The tall, straight elm sat with half its roots stretching into the soil of Beadledom and the other half deep in Muddlemarsh. Just past the tree was the bus stop. Brian looked at his watch. 2.47. The bus was due at 2.52.
At 2.53, Brian peered up the road in the direction in which the bus would come. The road was empty. At 2.56, Brian tutted. He was uncomfortably aware that Bligh was beginning to fidget. ‘Muddles,’ scoffed Brian silently. ‘Nothing is what it should be. Nothing is reliable.’
At 2.58, a small orange bus rumbled towards them. As the bus neared, they could see the smiling face of the driver. Shift waved as he pulled the bus to the side of the road, then made a neat U-turn and stopped in front of the waiting passengers. He opened the door.
‘Passengers!’ he cried cheerily. ‘Welcome aboard!’
The four passengers entered the empty bus. Brian stood next to Shift. ‘How much is the fare to Myrmidia?’ he asked as politely as he could.
Shift stared at Brian, confused. He hadn’t expected this. No one had ever paid to ride in his bus. He turned to Grunge for help. ‘Hey, bro, am I supposed to charge people to ride in the bus?’
‘No, Shift. It’s free.’ Grunge grinned at Brian. ‘It’s OK, there’s
no fare.’
Shift was content and happy. ‘That’s cool, then. I’d hate to think I’d forgotten something.’
Bligh was sitting next to the window, opposite Grunge and Crimson. Brian sat in the aisle seat next to him. Ripples of puzzlement wrinkled his forehead.
‘How does the bus make any money, then?’ he finally asked Grunge.
‘It doesn’t,’ replied Grunge. ‘Should it?’
Brian opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. It was pointless. Grunge would only have an explanation that Brian wouldn’t understand. He looked past Bligh out of the window and watched the countryside roll by. The bus shuddered on the uneven road and occasionally bounced from side to side. Brian felt himself lean against Bligh as the bus turned a corner and then he felt the shudder deepen as the bus crossed a familiar little bridge. As the bridge fell away behind them, Brian started. He was pretty certain that somewhere to the left he had heard the taunting bleat of a white goat with a black face.
It was a short ride to Home where the bus stopped long enough for Crimson and Grunge to pack a small bag and to tell the others where they were going. They had wanted to speak to Wave, but the Town Leader was still tending the new coffee trees at the plantation. They left with Bright’s promise to let Wave know what it was they had planned.
During the long bus journey to Myrmidia, Crimson, Grunge, Brian and Bligh went over everything that happened so far. They particularly tried to find a reason why any Myrmidot would want to harm the Beadles, or anyone at all from the Land. Try as they might, it didn’t make sense. At last, having exhausted all the possible reasons that came to mind, they fell into silence and watched the fields and trees slip past the bus windows.
The sun was nearly at the horizon when Brian consulted his watch once again.
‘We should make the six o’clock tram,’ he declared out loud.
‘Oh, you’ll make it all right,’ said Shift. ‘We only lost ten minutes in Home and we make it every day with time to spare.’ His face scrunched with thought. ‘Well, nearly every day. I mean, on those days when we don’t have a passenger who needs to go somewhere else first. Then we almost always miss it.’
Bligh and Brian exchanged glances. Their faces had the same expression that appears on the faces of parents who can’t wait for their children to grow up and be sensible.
On this particular afternoon, there were no detours and they arrived at the border of Myrmidia with four minutes to spare.
‘Thank you, Shift,’ said Grunge. ‘We’ll try and be here tomorrow for the midday bus back.’ The midday bus actually left at 11.20, but for Muddles that was close enough to deserve the name.
There was no tree to mark the border between Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia. Instead, there was a small neon sign flashing the words “Welcome to Myrmidia” and underneath the welcome, the words “You think it, we’ll make it”. Right beneath that, in very small letters, it read “Myrmidia Patent Number 007HWY61LP33221B”.
They crossed into Myrmidia. The tram depot was right on the border, a small concrete building painted olive green. At the entrance was a small turnstile with a sign next to it that
read:
Fares
Zone 1: 2 argents 50 aurums
Zone 2: 3 argents 50 aurums
Zone 3: 5 argents 25 aurums
Zones
Zone 1: Western sea to Muddlemarsh
Zone 2: No Zone 2 (but you never know)
Zone 3: No Zone 3 (will come after Zone 2)
And finally, at the bottom of the sign:
Please use correct money. If you do not have correct money, or any money at all, press the blue button to enter and travel free.
Since Muddles hardly ever carry money, Crimson pressed the blue button. The turnstile clicked and the little gate swung open to allow Crimson onto the platform. Above her, a small sign flashed “Thank you”. Grunge pressed the blue button and joined Crimson. “Thank you” flashed the sign again. Bligh searched his pockets. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a large silver coin.
‘Ten argents,’ he muttered and replaced the coin in his pocket. He pressed the blue button and entered onto the platform. “Thank you” flashed the sign for the third time.
Brian reached inside his coat and drew out a large purse. From the purse, he took a small coin which he placed on the turnstile next to the coin slot. He picked out another, examined it closely, and placed it on the first. Coin after coin he took from the purse and placed each on the pile on the turnstile until the pile threatened to topple.
‘Two-fifty,’ Brian said to himself. He replaced the purse inside his coat and then, one by one, dropped the coins into the slot. As each coin disappeared into the slot, the turnstile made a loud clicking noise, like a gear turning a single notch. Brian made a softer noise, counting each coin in turn.
‘… two-ten, two-twenty, two-thirty, two-forty, two-fifty,’ he counted as the last coin disappeared. There was a pause. ‘Quite finished?’ flashed the sign. Brian nodded. The turnstile gave one last click and clunk and Brian pushed through and walked onto the platform. ‘Thank you’ flashed the sign.
The tram came rattling along the rail and screeched to a halt at the platform. Now, it has to be admitted that Myrmidia’s tram is a wonderful vehicle. Painted green, with dull yellow trim, it is large and rectangular, with doors at the front and the back and running boards extending from front to rear. Between the doors are open windows so that passengers can lean their faces on their hands and dream of things while the land whizzes past. Inside, for about three-quarters of the tram, are pairs of seats on either side, and for the last quarter there are two long bench seats. If you wear a hat you quickly learn never to sit on the bench seats, with your back to the window, for invariably you find the wind tossing your hat across the tram to the passengers on the bench opposite.