The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  * * *

  It was hard work hoisting the Storyteller and Princess up the volcanic ledges of Skull Rock. They worked in silence, smoke from the ashy rocks rising around them. Inwardly, Scoop thanked Knot for remembering the trolleys amid the chaos, as the Black Horizon sank – they certainly made it easier to lift the bodies up the crag. Every time she touched the wood, she remembered Nib. Although it made her ache inside, it made her smile too. It was like having a little piece of him there with them.

  As they worked, Scoop couldn’t help but picture the giant skull in the cliff. As they sailed towards the island, it hadn’t been visible at first. But rounding the eastern shore, it had taken shape – the dark fissures that made its eyes, the ridges that formed the bridge of its nose, and finally the cave – that wide, black cave that became the skull’s mouth. Scoop shuddered. That was the destination they’d been moving towards ever since they’d accepted the quest. It filled her with dread.

  ‘Scoop,’ the pirate called down. He was peering over a ledge above, a rope in his hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking herself. The Storyteller’s trolley was caught on a rock. She freed it and the pirate pulled it up, huffing with the effort. It disappeared over the ledge. A moment later, the pirate reached down. Scoop grabbed his hand and scrambled up the rock, onto a plateau. Fletcher was already there, the Princess and Storyteller next to him. There was an odd expression on his face. Scoop followed his gaze. Beside her was a sight she’d both longed for and dreaded. It was the cave. She swallowed. They were here.

  The pirate rubbed his eyes. They were red from the smoke and he looked as though he were about to cry. ‘Well …’ he said, his words faltering. Scoop’s throat tightened. She knew what he was about to say.

  ‘Well …’ he repeated.

  ‘No,’ Scoop whispered.

  ‘I’m afraid this is where I have to say goodbye.’

  ‘What?’ said Fletcher. ‘You’re not coming?’

  Of course he’s not, Scoop realised. He can’t. He didn’t face the Nemesis Charm. Only we underwent the preparation. Only we can cross the Threshold. Why didn’t I think of it before? I always assumed he’d be with us.

  ‘I can’t cross the Threshold,’ the pirate confirmed.

  Fletcher’s eyes widened. ‘We have to go alone?’

  ‘You’ll have the Princess and Storyteller with you.’

  ‘But they haven’t undergone the preparation either,’ said Scoop.

  ‘They already exist on both sides of the Boundary,’ the pirate answered. ‘They’ll be alright.’ He stepped forward. ‘I’ve fulfilled my promise to the Storyteller. I’ve brought you this far. This is your journey now.’

  They stood, fixed to the spot. Then, with a sob, Scoop ran forward and flung her arms around the pirate. He looked thrown, but then closed his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘We would never have made it without you.’

  The pirate looked embarrassed. He prized himself from Scoop’s arms. ‘Well, I was never one for long goodbyes. I wish you all the luck in the world. Not that you need it. You were chosen for this task. You can do it.’ He looked from Scoop to Fletcher and then, with a nod, turned to leave.

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Fletcher.

  The Dark Pirate looked back. ‘I’ll return to the South Bookend Isles. I plan to follow our friends through to the other side. If I can be of assistance to them, I will.’ Before Fletcher could say anything else, the pirate spun round and leapt over the ledge, his cape billowing as he disappeared.

  Fletcher and Scoop were left alone. They stared at where the pirate had vanished, the rumble of breaking waves echoing up.

  There was an ache deep in Scoop’s chest. She turned to Fletcher and gave a small smile. ‘Come on then, brother. There’s no point in delaying it any longer. We have a job to do.’

  Fletcher nodded.

  Picking up the trolley ropes, the two apprentices dragged their mother and the Storyteller to the mouth of the cave and stared into the darkness.

  Scoop glanced at Fletcher. ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘This is the Threshold. We made a choice long ago. And now it’s time.’

  Fletcher’s heart was racing.

  Scoop turned and looked out, back across the sea, back across the Oceans of Rhyme, to the world that was her home. Fullstop Island, Bardbridge, Blotting’s Academy, her room at Scribbler’s House, the desk at which she’d studied, the bed in which she’d slept – they were all out there somewhere, beyond that endless sea. They had travelled so far to get here.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, simply.

  Turning back, she held Fletcher’s gaze for a moment. He gave a small nod of encouragement and then, together, they stepped into the darkness.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 19

  Lost

  I’m standing in a small room, my feet on a wooden floor. It’s dark and damp. The smell of rancid food hangs in the air. Thin beams of light pass through slatted shutters, making the dust glow.

  I’m in an entirely different world.

  It’s too big. I can’t take it in. But I feel it, in the core of my being. This is a different world.

  Outside, I can hear the sea. Not the fierce roar of waves crashing against Skull Rock, but the gentle rhythm of water sweeping a sandy beach.

  It’s quiet. Too quiet. I’ve not experienced stillness like this before. I feel a gap, an absence. It makes me dizzy.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ I ask Fletcher. He’s standing beside me. We’re both completely still, as if scared to move.

  ‘Feel what?’ he replies, quietly.

  ‘Time.’

  He looks at me and I know he understands.

  The present moment seems to stretch. It’s uncomfortable.

  Back in my world (it seems strange to say that), back at Blotting’s Academy, we were told about the Well Whisper, the voice of the island, stirred by the Storyteller, guiding its stories to completion. Words. Words drove my world, pushed it forward, gave it energy. Words made the sea sparkle with Fable Fish, built the golden domes of the Basillica Isles, made time fly like an arrow, words guided our steps, sank our ship, brought life, and ended it.

  Here, there’s nothing driving me forward.

  I feel lost.

  I shift my foot a little and stop. Then I move it the other way.

  Here, I can choose.

  And it’s terrifying.

  I’m aware of another feeling too, the sense I’m trespassing. My chest tightens.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ I say. My voice is louder than I’m used to.

  ‘No,’ Fletcher replies. ‘But we are.’

  Still, neither of us move.

  Outside, the gulls cry. It sounds like they’re trying to shriek over one another, desperately seeking attention. They sound confused. I understand how they feel.

  All of a sudden, Fletcher walks forward. His footsteps make me flinch. He reaches the window shutters and pushes them open, dust showering down. They creak as daylight floods in. I squint. When my eyes adjust, I see Fletcher staring at me. He looks shaken, as if that small act of moving was the bravest thing he’s ever done.

  He turns to look at the room. We’re standing in a small wooden hut – a cabin. It’s a single room with a low ceiling. There’s a kitchen area to one side. One corner has been partitioned with curtains. Through a gap, I can see an unmade bed. The room is simply furnished. A round table stands in the centre, a chair pushed under it. A gas lamp hangs above. The table is cluttered with paintbrushes, tubes and a stack of paper piled high. The only other furniture is an armchair, pushed into the corner, opposite the bed. There are dirty plates next to the sink and a pile of washing thrown against the wall.

  On a small shelf next to the armchair, something draws my attention. It’s a picture – a photograph. It’s faded. I’m not sure if I should go to look at it. It’s not mine, after all.

  Fletcher sees me staring. ‘Go on,’ he says. �
��Pick it up.’

  I glance at him, unsure.

  ‘It’s up to us now. We have to choose our own story.’

  Choose our own story? The thought horrifies me.

  ‘But it’s not ours.’

  ‘This room isn’t ours. This world isn’t ours. But we’re here for a reason.’

  A reason, yes. I can already feel it slipping.

  The Storyteller sent us, I remind myself. I look at him. He’s lying on the trolley next to me, still asleep. He looks older here and somehow thinner, less substantial.

  The Storyteller sent us, I repeat.

  I look behind, a thought occurring.

  ‘Where’s the door we came through?’

  There’s nothing there, just the back wall of the cabin.

  I want to go back. I don’t like it here. I feel myself beginning to panic.

  ‘Where is it? The … what’s it called? The Threshold.’

  Fletcher’s face hardens. ‘There’s no door. There’s no going back, remember?’

  Remember? Yes, I do. But the reality of our situation is only just dawning on me. I thought I knew what I was getting into. I thought I was choosing. But I had no idea. Now, it’s real. I’m stuck in a foreign world, nothing familiar, nobody to help me, and I have this slippery feeling like I can’t hold on. I realise my hands are trembling.

  ‘I’ll look at it then.’ Fletcher marches across and grabs the photo frame. He brushes away a layer of grime and stares at it. I see him frown.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come and see.’ I know he’s challenging me. I still haven’t moved. I’ve been fixed to this spot since we got here.

  I step forward – my first step in this new world. The movement has its own momentum. One step leads to the next, the initial direction flowing into others, almost naturally.

  I take the picture.

  A girl stands on a beach. She’s smiling, holding a red spade. She’s young, maybe three or four years old. There’s a woman behind her, arms outstretched, ready to catch the child if she falls. They’re standing in front of a white beach hut with blue window shutters. I recognise the girl instantly, despite her age.

  ‘Libby,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ replies Fletcher.

  I glance at the Storyteller.

  This isn’t the first time Fletcher and I have been to this world. We were brought here when we first started at Blotting’s Academy. But it was different then. Back then, we were whisked here unexpectedly and only stayed a matter of minutes. To be honest, it seemed like a dream. Afterwards, I doubted it had happened at all.

  While we were here, we met a girl named Libby. She was seventeen then. The girl in the photo has the same eyes, the same wispy hair. It’s her.

  When we met her, Libby told us she could leap into our world. When she did, she said, she became the Storyteller – that she was the Storyteller.

  ‘Do you remember what she told us?’ I ask Fletcher.

  ‘I do. She said her mother had gone missing, that she didn’t know where she was – that nobody did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  That’s her, I think, looking at the woman in the picture, standing behind Libby.

  ‘This is where she is,’ I whisper. ‘I know it. This is where she’s hiding.’

  Fletcher nods.

  It seems little wonder this is where the doorway opened. There’s a heavy sadness here, a sense of something torn, something that could rip worlds apart. And I feel darkness too.

  I shudder. ‘We have to get out of here,’ I say. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Fletcher walks to the table in the middle of the room and starts to thumb through the stack of papers. ‘In a moment,’ he mutters. Stopping, he pulls some scraps of paper from the pile. Spreading them out, he starts to rearrange them, fitting them together like a jigsaw.

  ‘This piece has been ripped,’ he says.

  He stops, a strange look on his face.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Peering at the scraps, Fletcher begins to read.

  ‘Grizelda stooped down and ran her hands through the hay. She hit something solid and stopped. Burying both hands into the box she stood up. In her grasp was a large glass jar.’

  As Fletcher reads, I see the air in the corner of the room stir.

  ‘She held it up to the light. It was filled with cloudy liquid. In the centre, suspended by the liquid, a heart glistened.’

  Something is forming in the darkness: black cloth, a figure.

  “What is that?’ the captain said, his voice low.

  ‘This, my dear, is a heart stolen from the Tombs of the undead.”

  As he speaks, I see her. ‘Stop,’ I whisper.

  Fletcher ignores me.

  ‘There was a commotion as the crew stepped away from the jar, muttering protective hexes.’

  I step back, my heart pounding. It’s Grizelda! She’s here! Somehow Fletcher is summoning her. Terror grips me. But it’s mixed with a sense of relief, perhaps at seeing another Mortale in this foreign world. Grizelda might be deadly but at least she’s familiar: a reminder of home. The old woman glares at me, still not fully formed.

  Fletcher continues to read:

  ‘Grizelda’s beady eyes flickered as she examined the heart. ‘It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly, the old woman flies at me, her arms outstretched, her mouth open wide.

  ‘The limp muscle was still red with blood.’

  I scream.

  Fletcher spins round, dropping the paper.

  As he does, Grizelda vanishes.

  I’m pressed against the wall, my skin cold but sweat pouring from me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have to get out of here! There’s power here – a darkness.’

  ‘Alright, but can we just––’

  ‘No, Fletcher! No, we can’t! We need to go – now!’

  Not waiting for a reply, I pick up one of the trolley ropes.

  ‘But we don’t know what to do. If we could just look round a bit …’ Crossing the room, he picks up the photo. I must have dropped it.

  ‘She was here, Fletcher!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Grizelda! As you read, she was here in the room. She flew at me!’

  Fletcher’s eyes widen. ‘She was here?’

  ‘Yes. We should go. Now!’

  I start to drag the trolley towards the door. It scrapes over the wooden floor. Fletcher doesn’t argue. He puts the picture in his pocket and follows, pulling the Storyteller after him.

  Outside, we find ourselves on a deserted beach. It’s cold. After the gloom of the cabin, the pale winter light hurts my eyes. Fletcher drags the Storyteller onto the sand. I glance back. We’ve come from a beach hut. It has blue shutters and peeling white paint. It’s the beach hut from the photo. With a start, I realise we’re standing where Libby played as a child, where she dug with that red spade.

  There are other huts too, lining the sand, bright yellows and blues. But they’re boarded up for the winter. I drag the Princess on, looking for somewhere to hide, somewhere to shelter.

  I notice an upturned boat pushed back into one of the alleyways between the beach huts. It’s tipped onto its side, grass growing around it and through the wood. It can’t have been used for years. Panting, I pull the Princess across to it and push her underneath. Fletcher shoves the Storyteller next to her. Then, grabbing a tarpaulin from some crabbing nets, he stretches it over the top of the boat, creating a tent-like shelter. He moves around it, weighing it down with stones. When he’s finished, both of us squeeze under the shelter and sit on the rough sand.

  We listen to the tarpaulin flapping in the wind. ‘So, what now?’ I ask. Fletcher shrugs. I pull my knees to my chest and hug them to keep out the cold. We’re on the other side of the Boundary but we have no idea what to do. We’re on our own, utterly lost.

  Chapter 20

  Welcome to DREAM

  Rufina’s head was pounding.
/>   ‘Welcome.’

  Someone was speaking.

  She opened her eyes, her vision swimming. There was a face in front of her. It was blurry, wreathed in a halo. Behind, she thought she caught sight of a large, black bird, but then it was gone and her vision lightened.

  ‘Welcome,’ the voice said again. Rufina recognised it.

  Her whole body ached. She tried to speak. ‘Where am I?’ Her voice was croaky, barely audible.

  She closed her eyes again. Instantly, a memory crashed over her: She was being dragged under. Around, great waves rose like mountains. The water was bone chilling. Fierce. She was struggling, fighting to stay afloat, debris crashing into her. A fragment of the crow’s nest was tossed past, a remnant of the sinking ship.

  She could feel Alfa gripping her hand. The irresistible current dragged her on. She fought. It pulled her towards the rocks ahead, jagged and deadly. And the roaring. Such roaring. It made Rufina’s whole being tremble.

  ‘Nib,’ she whispered, opening her eyes.

  ‘Rufina.’ The face was there again. It was closer now, peering at her, concerned.

  That face. She recognised it.

  ‘Yarnbard?’

  * * *

  The old man peered at his friend. Her eyes darted erratically. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He laid the back of his hand on her forehead. Her skin was icy cold.

  ‘Rufina,’ he said again, leaning closer. He turned his ear, trying to hear what she was saying.

  She began to whisper, a breathy sound like punctured bellows. The wheeze gradually took shape. ‘Yarn …’ he thought he heard her say. ‘Yarnbard?’

  She was awake. She could see him.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay still. You’ve been through an ordeal. You need to rest.’

  She focused on him, her eyes wide and fearful. He could see her grit. She was one of the strongest Mortales he knew.

  ‘Yarnbard?’ she mouthed again. ‘But you’re––’