by Linda Talbot
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FIVE
They tumble from the mouth of the cave, Fifi fluttering ahead in agitation. The other creatures are milling in confusion.
“Quick, the man is hungry!” cries Sven. This is enough to scatter everyone. Thor moves with great strides along the narrow path, the crocodiles waddle like lost logs in his wake, while Legs gets entangled with everyone.
Porlock tries and fails to bounce. But no one pursues them and at last they reach the end of the path and find the field deserted and still soaked in sun.
They have just reached the far side when at least twelve men appear from the hedgerow; spears raised and frowns on their rough faces. In a moment they have encircled the Swiftifoots and the animals, and grunting and jabbing at them with their spears, drive them back across the field towards the gap in the hedge.
Legs rears to his full height, imagining he is under the sea and the men are fishermen on the surface. But the land is no substitute for the salt waves and Legs cannot move like lightning as he would in water. His tentacles feel like parched rubber and splay beneath him. Porlock’s pores are prodded with a spear, while Thor, recognising men at once, rumbles loudly, thrusts his neck forward and darts angrily among the terrified Swiftifoots.
Only the crocodiles stand their guard, snapping their great jaws as the men move within range.
They are swift, dancing to and fro around the captives, slowly moving them towards a compound beyond the hedge. One by one everyone is forced through to be surrounded by high fences.
Anxiously Sven looks for a cooking pot. There is none. But the men look satisfied as they secure a high gate with a long spear. Then they stand and stare at the Swiftifoots and the angry animals.
This is the first ZOO made by men. By travelling back in time, the Swiftifoots have met animals that have been snatched from the present, to live during the days when they first appeared on Earth and in the sea. Now they have met early MAN.
Soon there are about fifty men watching the menagerie and Sven thinks, casting particularly hungry eyes at the Swiftifoots. But they simply grunt and point.
At last Sven says to Fifi, “Please help us Fifi. You can fly.” The fairy is sitting sadly in one of Porlock’s dry pores. She says, “Very well. I’ll try to find the Land of Paradise Flowers. Our Queen will know what to do.”
She waits, hoping the men will go away and not notice her fly from the compound. Some grow tired of pointing and wander off. But the others remain, waiting to see how their captives will behave. Finally Fifi takes a deep breath and springs in flight from Porlock.
Swiftly she darts over the men’s heavy heads, as insignificant as a moth as she disappears into the darkening sky. Now the men merely mumble, but twelve still stand guard by the fence, so the animals and Swiftifoots pretend to sleep, uncomfortably entangled in the small space.
Hours pass. Dawn breaks. Twelve more men arrive to replace those on guard who stumble away, spears raised, to seek breakfast.
The day seems endless. Several Swiftifoots faint, too thirsty to sit upright any longer in the sun. Legs subsides untidily, like a heap of old tyres. Porlock gasps dryly, barely able to open and close his pores. Thor stands motionless, head high, sharp eyes fastened on the men who might wear his feathers and roast him, while the crocodiles crawl into a corner to lie as usual like forgotten tree trunks. Snurk is rolled into a ball, convinced that by nightfall not one of them will be alive, Crump tries to cheer up Squidge, but he shivers fearfully in the sun.
Night falls. The men grunt less often, no longer filled with wonder at what they have caught. So when the BLACK BUTTERFLIES arrive, moving across the sky like a dark carpet, blacker than the first hours of night, they do not even notice. But the Swiftifoots hear the whirr of many wings and, looking up, see the black butterflies that a man might mistake for a storm cloud.
“What are they?” asks Crump, always curious. Even Snurk unrolls and mutters, “What’s the matter?” The animals wait in silence. Whatever happens must be better than belonging to a zoo.
Suddenly the great black cloud descends, enveloping the unsuspecting men outside the compound. Wildly the black wings flap and the men stumble blindly to and fro with grunts and groans of surprise, while from the midst of the black butterflies flits Fifi, silvery in the dark.
She flies towards Legs who has reared up darkly, his interest in events restored. “Undo the gate, your legs are long enough!” urges Fifi, as the men rush desperately at the blanket of butterflies. Legs flops towards the gate and, thrusting one long tentacle through the fence, eases out the spear, until it drops onto the grass. The gate swings open and the Swiftifoots, stunned but stumbling to their feet, pass through, followed by the animals.
Sshnaps grabs at a man’s leg as he passes, champing it in his sharp teeth, then sways after the Swiftifoots. They follow Fifi who flutters ahead, while the butterflies continue to cling and whirr.
At last the Swiftifoots enter a damp forest and finally feeling safe, with dry voices, try to raise a weak cheer. They roll on the forest floor and gather fat fruits which they gobble too fast. Even the hungry animals try the forest fruit and flop in the long grass.
“We’re not far from the Land of Paradise Flowers,” says Fifi, “I found it beyond this forest and over some hills. Our Queen sent the black butterflies. They live on the first dews of day and only fly by night.”
Everyone falls asleep, muttering their gratitude and feeling very full.
Dawn breaks damply and the forest murmurs with morning sounds. Among them are the croaks of the waking Swiftifoots, stiff but ready to face whatever foe they might meet next on their way to the Land of Paradise Flowers.
Fifi flies, feeling important, to the head of the long line they form with Sven and the animals in front, hoping she can remember the way home over the bare black hills.
Soon they leave the forest and cross grassy meadows towards the hills humped darkly on the horizon. The fields seem deserted, although the Swiftifoots cannot see the many insects and small furry beings that scurry and squirm in the grass and at the bottom of ditches.
At last they leave the meadows and begin to climb the steep hills. The sky darkens as though reflecting the brooding shapes and it is hard to imagine the Land of Paradise Flowers lies on the other side. By noon they have reached the summit of the highest hill. They have climbed so high, they stand in the centre of a huge black cloud and cannot see what lies beneath.
“There’s nothing but a black hole,” grumbles Legs, “Not even a salt sea or I would have smelt it.”
Porlock sighs dryly in sympathy, while the crocodiles groan and Thor rumbles nervously, afraid that men seeking feathers might be moving through the cloud.
Snurk gasps for breath, Crump waits for an adventure to materialise from the mist, while Squidge, remembering the Moonmarsh Mountains, knows that hills often have heartless things to say. But these are steeped in silence. At least the air is damp and soon the Swiftifoots are singing quite loudly; old songs meant for marching in the days when their ancestors moved through forests in search of food.
Fifi flutters, her wings working slowly because of the damp. At last she sees the Lake of White Lilies, that lies on the edge of the Land of Paradise Flowers and eagerly she flies back to tell the others. Relieved, they hasten, anxious for their first glimpse of Fifi’s homeland.
The clouds clear and, spread below, like a shimmering sheet of glass, lies the lake.
“Where are these miraculous Paradise Flowers?” demands Legs, wishing the lake was a surging sea full of fishermen.
“They only grow in the Great Green Centre,” says Fifi, “But there are plenty for all. A few petals will make you immortal, then each of you can live in whatever kind of country you choose. There are salt seas, wide rivers and, of course, a thick forest where it rains only when requested. But first you must meet our Queen.”
The Swiftifoots begin brushing the dust from their damp skins, wanting to look their best. Legs does not care wha
t the Queen thinks of him so long as he can live in a great salt sea. Porlock thinks of it too and already his pores feel less parched.
They reach the bottom of the hill and the edge of the shining lake. The lilies lift pale faces to a sky now blue and flecked with white clouds that might be a reflection of the floating flowers.
The crocodiles long to slither into the water but feel clumsy on the brink. So they stand and stare at the placid lilies.
Fifi flies round the edge of the lake and everyone follows, some of the Swiftifoots dipping their dusty feet in the water.
“Where is your Queen?” asks Crump, thinking that meeting her might be the adventure.
“She lives in the heart of the largest Paradise Flower in the land,” says Fifi. At this, all the creatures feel very awkward but happy to have a home at last. The sun shines on the silver lake as they leave it to march across a green plain dotted with bell-shaped flowers. As the plain slopes gently downwards, they see masses of huge flowers; like lilies, but of every conceivable colour, leaning gracefully on slender stems and billowing in the breeze.
Everyone stops and gazes in wonder at the flowers. Some are spotted, others striped. There are some pale as snow, others rich as red earth. Some seem to have faces that smile at the Swiftifoots.
Treading carefully, the Swiftifoots weave between the green stems, inhaling the soft perfume, while the animals too large to pass through the flowers, follow Fifi along a grassy path round the edge. At last, on a small hill, they see a huge Paradise Flower, its great petals furled, fusing every colour of the rainbow.
From deep inside they hear singing in a silvery voice; a song of the sun, unlike their misty marching songs.
“That’s the Queen,” says Fifi. With her tiny feet she nimbly climbs up notches like steps in the stalk of the great flower and carefully folding her wings, disappears down the velvety slope of the centre.
Everyone waits, while the flower shivers slightly as Fifi tiptoes to its heart where the Queen sits singing. The silvery voice stops and several seconds later, Fifi reappears. Behind her rises the strangest yet loveliest being the Swiftifoots have yet encountered.
She too is a fusion of rainbow colours; seeming part flower, part insect, with long antennae like those of a butterfly, protruding from a head of golden hair. Her face, like the inside of a flower, is friendly, as she gazes at the weary collection of creatures.
The Queen sits singing
Fifi whispers in her ear. She smiles and in a voice delicate as dew, says, “Welcome strangers, from the forests, rivers and plains. You were chosen to leave the present and travel through time, from the early Earth that was all fire, through the Middle Time to the days of the First Man. Each of you first appeared at a different time in the past. But there is no need to travel further. If you do, you will live once more in the present and never be free of men, for from this time on, as you know, they multiply. They are muddled and quarrelsome. Stay here; feed on the petals of Paradise Flowers.”
She knows that the Swiftifoots and their relatives could wage war on man. For man does not always see fungi growing. They creep in dark, damp places. They dissolve matter and, as a mould, they may devour man’s food. But in the Land of Paradise Flowers the Swiftifoots will be immortal.
Sven says, “We thank you kind Queen, especially for sending the Black Butterflies to help us. All we ask is a damp forest where it does not rain EVERY day and we can build tunnels beneath the trees.”
“Granted,” says the Queen.
“A great salt sea will suit me,” says Legs, impressed at last by someone he has met.
“And me!” puts in Porlock.
“Granted,” says the Queen.
“We would like a sluggish sort of river,” chorus the crocodiles.
“I have a very clear river with not much mud, but you are welcome to make of it what you will,” says the Queen. Sshnaps and Sshnapilla are content.
“I’ll share the Swiftifoots forest if I may,” rumbles Thor.
“Certainly,” agrees the Queen.
Fifi flutters proudly. First she leads the Swiftifoots and Thor towards the deep green forest, where they plunge into the perfumed grass. The trees are so tall, no sky is glimpsed through the uppermost branches, yet a silvery light spreads gently across the forest floor which is cool and moist, but not too wet, and is filled with marvellous morsels of food.
Snurk lies with a grunt in the grass and is instantly sound asleep - a broad smile on his crumpled face. Crump does a squashy dance, then swings from a low bough, croaking a home-coming song. Squidge is no longer afraid and with a light sigh, sits with his long legs crossed.
Sven is relieved the journey is over and that most of them have survived. He extends a damp hand to Fifi, who says, “Don’t forget the Paradise petals. I expect to see you all once a week in the Great Green Centre.”
Those Swiftifoots who have not fallen asleep thank Fifi in thick voices and promise to come. So Fifi, fluttering high in the cool air, leads Legs to the edge of the surging salt sea, where he stretches, with tentacles flying, already refreshed and relishing the thought of the fish which he will eat between mouthfuls of Paradise petals. Porlock follows.
Finally, Fifi flies ahead of the crocodiles to a clear river that winds between wide fields and, knowing that no one will notice if they do only look like logs, they slide in, to feel the water softly whirl and soak into their crusty skins.
The Land of Paradise Flowers is silent, except for a soft breeze that weaves from the depths of a deep blue sky.
Peace envelops the Swiftifoots and the animals. They breathe the clear, calm air and they know that day by day, very slowly they will change, until, unlike men, they will be immortal.
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Thank you for reading this book - which I hope you have enjoyed.
If you would like to read my other work, please return to your favourite ebook retailer. For a complete list of my work with a short summary of each, click this link to my blog https://lindajtalbot.wordpress.com. There are also sample extracts from many of these works. You are welcome to subscribe or add a comment.
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Author's Note
Linda Talbot writes fantasy for adults and children. She now lives in Crete and as a journalist in London she specialised in reviewing art, books and theatre, contributing a chapter to a book about Conroy Maddox, the British Surrealist and writing about art for Topos, the German landscape magazine. She has published "Fantasy Book of Food", rhymes, recipes and stories for children; "Five Rides by a River", about life, past and present around the River Waveney in Suffolk; short stories for the British Fantasy Society, and stories and poetry for magazines.
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