The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  ‘Asleep,’ he interrupted. ‘Yes.’ He didn’t want her to speak. She needed to conserve her energy. But as he looked into her eyes, he knew he would have to explain something or she would never rest.

  She took another breath, ready to question him.

  ‘Lie still,’ he said. ‘Lie still and I’ll explain.’

  Rufina released her breath.

  ‘Yes, it’s me. And yes, I am asleep.’

  * * *

  Rufina peered past the old man. Other things were beginning to take shape – blurry outlines. She was in a large, circular hall. Several camp beds were arranged in untidy clusters. A handful of figures moved between them. In a couple of the beds, Rufina could make out other people, blankets pulled over them. The figures all had a strange, shadow-like quality. They glowed, halos surrounding them, as if silhouetted by a brighter light. She could hear trickling in the background, a gentle, restful sound. The air in the hall also seemed to glow, giving everything a hazy, not-quite-real quality. Tiny sparks of light drifted, suspended in the air, making the whole scene feel …

  ‘Welcome to DREAM,’ the Yarnbard said, interrupting her thoughts.

  DREAM? Rufina had heard of such a place in legends, but it was too much effort to try to recall them.

  ‘DREAM,’ said the Yarnbard, ‘is the world beyond our world, or beneath it. It’s a foundational place, the deepest level of our reality. DREAM is a reflection of what is. It is the other side of the mirror.’

  Rufina scanned the hall again. She recognised this place. It was familiar and yet somehow it wasn’t exactly the place she knew.

  She breathed in, wanting to voice what she saw, but it hurt. ‘Alethea?’ she managed to wheeze.

  The Yarnbard laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t talk. You need to rest.’

  This was the Great Hall of Alethea, the castle of the Storyteller, Rufina knew it. Or at least it looked like it. But something was different, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.

  Another face appeared beside the Yarnbard, also dark and wreathed in the same bright glow.

  Despite the pain, Rufina smiled. ‘Mr Snooze?’ she mouthed.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, dear.’ The moon-faced man smiled back. ‘Did I hear you talking of DREAM?’ he asked the Yarnbard.

  ‘You did. Your speciality subject, of course.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Snooze knelt beside Rufina. ‘DREAM is an echo of the Fullstop Island we know. DREAM’s FULLSTOP ISLAND is almost indistinguishable, existing alongside it, but not precisely the same place.’

  ‘How did we get here?’ Rufina managed to ask.

  ‘That’s a mystery, my dear. None of us can be sure why we’ve been gathered here … although I might hazard a guess, if I may?’

  ‘Of course. We are your students,’ replied the Yarnbard.

  Mr Snooze jiggled his head. ‘Well, perhaps it’s because ALETHEA is the heart of this world, its deepest centre. As such, it will be the last place to …’ He trailed off, glancing at the Yarnbard, unsure whether to continue. The Yarnbard gave him a little nod. ‘It will be the last place to disappear,’ Mr Snooze finished. ‘This place is lodged deep in the UNCONSCIOUS REALM. Because of that, it’s our best stronghold.’

  The Yarnbard nodded, thoughtfully.

  The last place to disappear? Rufina repeated.

  Mr Snooze continued: ‘I believe ALETHEA itself has called us here as the ultimate act of self-protection. We may have arrived through different doorways – the Venus Flower, the South Bookend Isles – but the heart of the island has gathered us to itself. This is the last great bastion of our shared existence.’

  The Yarnbard nodded. ‘I’ve been here quite some time, you know – ever since I lost consciousness while fleeing the Red Hawks. I’ve been holding vigil, while my body lay safe aboard the Black Horizon. I greeted the Green Guardian, Christopher and Lady Wisdom here, many days ago. Now, I welcome you and the rest of the crew from the Black Horizon – Knot, Freddo, Pierre, the Boatswain, Alfa and Sparks …’

  ‘They’re all here?’ asked Mr Snooze.

  ‘They are.’

  Rufina noticed the Yarnbard’s voice had quietened. She felt uneasy. There was an absence, a name left from the list.

  ‘And Nib?’

  The Yarnbard laid a hand on her shoulder again. ‘Nib didn’t make it, I’m afraid. He––’

  Rufina howled. ‘No!’ Her cry rang through the hall, her body convulsing with the effort. She had known it in her gut, but hearing it aloud sent the reality crashing through her. The other figures stopped and stared. For a moment, there was complete stillness in the Great Hall of ALETHEA.

  ‘No,’ Rufina said again, quietly. Her muscles shook uncontrollably as she dissolved into tears. Sobs wrenched from the depth of her being.

  ‘Shh,’ the Yarnbard said, trying to comfort her. ‘Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright.’

  No, it isn’t, Rufina wanted to shout. It’s not alright. It never will be. Nothing will ever be alright again. But she couldn’t speak through the sobs that rose in great bursts.

  ‘Nib was a brave, brave boy,’ the Yarnbard said. ‘I don’t think we would have made it here without him. And no ending is ever really final. There are stories beyond stories, dimensions we know nothing of. It is no coincidence this hall is circular, a never-ending wall.’

  Despite the Yarnbard’s attempts, Rufina couldn’t stop sobbing. Her body rocked with lament. Nib was gone. She would never see him again. She rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball. How could she handle such pain? How could she live with such grief? It would never end. She would have to carry this wound the rest of her days.

  Behind, she heard the Yarnbard whisper, ‘She needs rest.’

  ‘I’ll sit with her,’ said a woman.

  ‘Thank you, Felda.’

  Rufina felt the presence of the Green Guardian beside her, a hand resting on her side. She allowed Felda’s warmth to seep into her. It didn’t ease the pain, but somehow it helped her to hold it. As Felda stroked her back, Rufina closed her eyes and wept.

  * * *

  Mr Snooze stared into the silver pool in the centre of the ALETHEAN hall. It was a sorry sight. A few straggling threads writhed sluggishly at the bottom of the basin. The head of the Department of Dreams could see a faint water mark where the liquid used to lap.

  ‘It’s drying up,’ he said to the Yarnbard, the two men having retreated from Rufina’s bedside.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the old man. ‘The River Word is drying too. It will be gone altogether before long.’

  Beside the pool, two candles burned, pools of wax spilling onto the floor around them.

  ‘Your vigil?’ asked Mr Snooze.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Princess and the Storyteller – these are their lights, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are.’

  Mr Snooze looked grave. ‘Time is running out.’

  ‘It is. We must protect these flames, keep them alight long enough.’

  The candles were low. They flickered, sparking yellow and orange. ‘Long enough for what, my friend? We’re fading. This world is almost gone.’

  The fire reflected from the Yarnbard’s eyes. ‘I still hold firm. I will not accept the end before it comes. We must protect these flames at all cost.’

  Mr Snooze looked at him, his skin drooping, waxen as the candles that teetered, ready to collapse into themselves. He nodded. ‘I will stand with you.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  ‘What of the other sleepers? Why are they not with us? Why are so few remaining?’

  ‘Most of the island has been drawn into a place of stasis. They are unconscious.’ The Yarnbard paused. ‘Would you like to see?’

  Mr Snooze nodded.

  ‘Come then, follow me.’

  Without a word, the two men wended their way through the hall toward the door to the castle’s tallest tower.

  ‘I warn you, it’s a sorry sight,’ said the Yarnbard, disappearing int
o the turret.

  I’m getting used to that, thought Mr Snooze as he followed.

  Chapter 21

  Watching

  I shuffle along the beach, my mind wandering. The sand crunches beneath my feet. I feel aware of every grain, every stone.

  There’s a pool of water next to one of the wooden partitions that divides the beach. I crouch, running my fingers through the icy liquid. The cold wakes my senses.

  I’m supposed to be doing something. There’s a reason I’m here.

  Exploring.

  Yes, that’s it. I’m supposed to be exploring. I suggested it to …

  I shake my head, irritated. I know the name. It’s at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite reach it.

  Fletcher.

  Yes. I said to Fletcher I’d explore. I’d see if I could find something to help us.

  I straighten up. The beach is deserted, apart from a flock of seagulls circling someone in an old camping chair a little way down the beach. The birds wheel and dive around them, flapping chaotically.

  I move closer, my head down. I don’t want to be seen. A bitter wind surges from the sea, blowing straight through me. I watch my feet move across the sand. For a moment, they seem to fade. I blink and they become solid again.

  I must be tired.

  Reaching the next partition, I stop, a little way from the water. The person in the camping chair is staring out to sea, oblivious to me. There’s another rock pool around one of the decaying beams. I crouch again, pretending to explore, but really peering over the wooden fence, spying.

  The person in the camping chair is wearing a faded, red puffer jacket. They have an old blanket thrown over their legs. They’re feeding the seagulls, throwing scraps of meat and fish from a plastic box. The birds scream, fighting for the scraps. One of the bigger birds dives, viciously. The person waves a hand, trying to shoo it away. As they do, they turn to the side and I see their face.

  It’s a woman. I recognise her.

  I rack my brains trying to remember where I’ve seen her before.

  After a few moments, I realise I’ve zoned out and am staring at the barnacles clinging to the wood.

  I shake myself and look up, examining the figure again.

  It’s the mother – yes, of course.

  Whose mother?

  I scrunch my face, trying to remember.

  Libby’s mother!

  My senses flood back. I’m suddenly alert. This is important.

  That’s Libby’s mother. She’s is the reason Fletcher and I are here.

  I inch closer, listening. She’s talking to the birds.

  ‘Get away with yer!’ she shouts. ‘Share! I’ve told yer before – there’s enough for all of yer!’ She kicks out at one of the gulls. It flaps away, screeching. ‘You’ve had enough, you have!’

  Throwing another scrap, she watches the birds leap on it. ‘Have yer found it yet? Have yer?’ She pauses, waiting for a reply. ‘No? I bet yer haven’t even looked, have yer? I don’t know why I bother.’ She waves both hands and the birds jump away in a swirl of feathers but are soon back, fighting over the scrap again. She points out to sea. ‘It’s out there somewhere, d’yer hear? I’ve told yer before! He made me throw it away! You’ve got to find it, bring it back! Go! Find my pen! It’s out there somewhere under the water. Go! Go!’

  She stands, knocking her blanket to the floor. The gulls screech, taking to the air. Libby’s mum collapses back into the chair with a groan.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks herself. ‘You don’t even know why you want it back, do yer? Yer threw it away for a reason, remember? Yer can’t live with all that noise in yer head – all those Mortales making yer life a misery. That’s why yer came here, wasn’t it, to get away, to escape!’ She looks up. ‘But when they’re gone it’s too damn quiet. I hate this quiet.’ She glares at the gulls. ‘Yeah, you keep on screeching, but go find it – go find my pen. I need it back! Maybe it is a source of noise, but it’s a source of life too – my life – d’yer hear?’ She rocks back in the chair. ‘What am I doing, talking to birds? They don’t care. They only care about this.’ She tosses the rest of the scraps onto the sand and the gulls swoop in a savage whirl.

  With a groan, Libby’s mum grabs her blanket and stands up.

  I step away, not wanting to be seen. Turning, I dash across the beach to find Fletcher. As I run, I glance back. Libby’s mother has vanished. The beach is empty.

  When I reach the boat, Fletcher’s staring into the distance, a vague expression on his face.

  ‘I’ve seen her,’ I pant.

  I don’t think he registers who I am at first. His eyes focus. ‘Who?’ he says. ‘Who have you seen?’

  ‘Libby’s mum. She’s out there on the beach, talking to the seagulls.’

  ‘Talking to birds?’

  ‘Yes. But listen …’

  I recount what I’ve heard.

  When I finish, Fletcher pauses. ‘The source? That’s what she said – the source of life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stone. I know what it is, although the memory feels distant. It’s the rock from the Merking’s statue. I run my hand over my pocket and feel a stone there too.

  ‘SEEK THE SOURCE,’ Fletcher says. ‘That’s what was written on the … on the …’

  ‘Merking’s trident,’ I prompt. I feel childish saying it. Merking? Trident? It seems so far-fetched. But there’s the stone in Fletcher’s hand. I can’t deny that.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, looking frustrated. ‘So …’ he pauses. ‘So, the pen’s the source? Is that what you’re saying? That’s what we’re seeking – a pen?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if it is, we’re done for. Her pen’s lost. I heard her say it. The stupid woman threw it in the sea. She was telling the gulls to go and find it.’

  I feel hopeless. Are we relying on seagulls to get us out of this mess?

  Fletcher closes his eyes. He looks weary.

  ‘If that’s the source, it’s gone,’ I repeat, almost wanting him to feel worse.

  He opens his eyes and sighs. ‘I’ve been thinking. This might sound weird, but just before we stepped through the Threshold, the pirate said something that stuck in my head. He said the Storyteller and Princess exist on both sides of the Boundary. That’s why they could cross the Threshold.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well … if Libby is the Storyteller back in our world, perhaps …’ he pauses.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perhaps Libby’s mum is the Princess?’

  I stare at him.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it since I read that ripped paper in the beach hut. You know, when you saw Grizelda appear. Those words summoned her. And do you remember what Libby said when we met her all that time ago? She said the journal – the one with our stories in – it had been her mother’s. She had started our stories and Libby was finishing them. So …’ Fletcher pauses again. ‘So, our world was created by Libby and her mother – the Storyteller and Princess. It’s a shared world. We’re children of them both.’

  I stare at him, trying to take in what he’s saying. Our world was created by Libby and her mother. It’s a shared world.

  ‘And you know what that means?’ Fletcher asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘There must be two pens – two sources. Maybe Libby’s mum’s pen is lost, but perhaps we can find the other one.’

  ‘A second source?’

  ‘Yes. We could still find Libby’s pen, couldn’t we?’

  I feel like Fletcher’s clutching at straws. ‘Even if that’s true,’ I ask, ‘how would we find it? We’ve no idea where Libby is.’

  Fletcher shrugs. ‘There must be a clue in the beach hut. Her mum must have kept something, a reminder, a memento, something that will tell us where Libby is.’

  It’s a long shot, but it’s possible. ‘But even if there is a clue,’ I say, ‘how are we going to get it? It’s not like we can just walk up
and ask.’

  Fletcher gives me an intense look. ‘We need to break in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We need to break into the beach hut.’

  ‘No. I don’t like it there! And what if she catches us?’

  ‘We wait until we’re sure she’s gone. This stretch of sand is like an island. I’ve been looking around. It’s just a beach with a small shop and café. You have to catch a boat to get to the mainland. Libby’s mum must have to do that at some point. She must have to go there to get food. So, we wait. We wait and watch. And when we’re sure she’s gone, we break in.’

  I can’t believe Fletcher’s suggesting this. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Do you have a better plan?’

  I don’t. I just feel hopeless. I shake my head.

  ‘Well then. This is our best shot. And if you don’t want to do it with me, I’ll do it alone.’

  My cheeks flush. Why does he have to speak to me like that – even here where we have nobody but each other? ‘No,’ I snap. ‘We’ll break in together!’

  ‘Right then,’ Fletcher replies. ‘We’d better start keeping watch then, hadn’t we?’ He turns away and stares at the beach hut. ‘I’ll take the first shift.’

  Chapter 22

  The NIGHTMARE Army

  From the tallest tower of ALETHEA, Mr Snooze looked out across FULLSTOP ISLAND. He had no words for what he saw. As far as the eye could see, the island was covered in cobwebs. A thick, white webbing criss-crossed everything, shimmering with DREAM-like intensity, sleep sparkles suspended around it. The web covered the foothills of the mountains; it clung to the pillars of WISDOM’S HOUSE; it crept down the dirty, brown banks of the river; and it drew BARDBRIDGE into a sticky, bulbous clump. Even the ships at the PORT OF BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS were bound by the fibrous mesh.

  The island was eerily still, but every so often, Mr Snooze caught sight of a shape lurking beneath the web.

  ‘Are they …?’

  ‘Gigan Ticks, yes,’ the Yarnbard finished.

  Mr Snooze could see one of the giant spiders hiding in the shallows of the PUDDLES OF PLOT. It was enormous – a great, hairy, arachnid. He shivered as he watched it burrow into the web, disappearing into its twisted labyrinth.