The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  ‘They’re the only things fully alive out there now,’ said the Yarnbard. ‘Look.’ He pointed at a bulging, white cocoon that hung from the top of one of the THREE TOWERS. Mr Snooze could see others secreted in the sprawling web. ‘The Gigan Ticks are guarding them.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They are the other villagers. You asked where they were. Now you can see with your own eyes. We are the only ones left, the only ones who have not been captured and stored.’

  Mr Snooze took in the eerie scene. He frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I sense something else out there, something other than the Gigan Ticks.’ He sniffed the air. ‘There’s a disturbance in DREAM.’

  ‘What? What do you sense?’

  Mr Snooze turned to the Yarnbard. ‘Did she make it through with us?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Grizelda. Did her crow form make it through the Bookend doorway?’

  The Yarnbard hadn’t seen it, but it was possible. Everything had happened so quickly. One moment, he and the other Guardians had been silently keeping vigil, the next, a pile of bodies were writhing on the floor, coughing and spewing water, wriggling like fish caught in a net. In the chaos, the old woman may have made it through. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It is possible.’

  ‘She’s out there. I feel it. There’s a disturbance in the fabric of DREAM. A doorway is being unlocked …’

  ‘A doorway? What doorway?’

  ‘NIGHTMARE,’ the moon-faced man whispered. ‘The doorway to the dark side of DREAM.’ He began to edge away, back towards the turret that led to the Great Hall. ‘We need to return,’ he said. ‘NIGHTMARE is coming, and when it arrives, we need to be ready.’

  * * *

  Grizelda peered into the darkness, her lips twisting into a wicked grin. Strips of dark cloud twined around her, as if caressing the old woman. On returning to FULLSTOP ISLAND, she had located her old ally, Melusine, and summoned her to DREAM. The tall Shapeshifter stood beside her now at the opening to the CENTRAL CHASM, her skin pale as ivory, her lips red as blood. Only pallid light filtered through the web above them, forcing Melusine to open her snake eyes wide to pierce the gloom.

  ‘How sure are you thiss will be a success?’ she said.

  The old woman spat into the chasm. ‘What d’yer take me for, snake brain? D’yer think I’d come up with a half-baked plan at a time like this? We’re nearly at the end, ain’t we? It’s time for us to tighten our grip around the neck of this good-for-nothing world and to choke the life right out of it. I ain’t plannin’ to ease up on its windpipe until it’s beggin’ for mercy.’

  Melusine hissed, a long tongue flicking from her mouth. The strips of cloud slithered around her shoulders too, binding the women in darkness.

  ‘Now, let’s get on with it, shall we, before one of those hairy monstrosities turns up to spoil the party. It’s time to open the ancient doorway that separates the ABYSS from the CENTRAL CHASM. It’s time to let darkness off its leash. You ready?’

  ‘Yess.’

  ‘Right then, get on with it, make the sacrifice. I didn’t bring you ‘ere for nothin’, did I?’

  Melusine pulled a knife from her dress and in one swift movement lowered it to her palm, slicing her flesh. She bared her teeth as she squeezed her hand into a fist. Blood dripped into the CENTRAL CHASM.

  Grizelda heard it sprinkle the rocks below. ‘Good. And now the words.’

  The women raised their voices.

  ‘Come Vampire and Werewolf,

  Gorgan and Jinn.’

  ‘Banshee,’ Grizelda crowed.

  ‘Succubus and Incubus,’ Melusine hissed. The words echoed through the chambers below.

  ‘Manticore and Zombie,’ they recited together.

  ‘Cupacabra, Poltergeist, Mummy and Ghoul.

  Come Changeling, Cyclops, Golum and Troll.

  Sirens sing.

  Cerberus bark.

  Demons shriek.

  Behemoth roar.

  We call the Headless Horsemen to ride once more.’

  As they spoke, ribbons of cloud threaded down into the hole.

  ‘Great Craken rise from Davey Jones’s jail,’ Grizelda wailed.

  ‘Witch things fly. Giants hail!

  Night army, be loosed, be loosed at last.

  Night army, rise up, take arms, look fast.

  Night army, fall in, advance, close ranks.

  NIGHTMARE awake, breach daytimes banks.

  The clock strikes twelve!

  The clock strikes twelve!

  Night is here!’

  The two women fell still.

  At first nothing stirred. But then, from deep below there was a faint boom. A low rumble echoed through the chasm. Melusine glanced at Grizelda, her tongue flicking. The old woman’s chest heaved. ‘Shh,’ she breathed. ‘I hear them.’

  Melusine turned back. Deep in the earth there was a buzz. It was the scratching and clawing of creatures scurrying across rock. Dim thumps punctuated the hiss. They were joined by an eerie, discordant wail that echoed up, making Melusine’s skin crawl. The noise grew louder, as if a storm were approaching. Yelps and unnatural harmonies joined the clamour, shrieks, hoots and growls. The ground was pounding. It trembled beneath Melusine’s feet. A great roar burst from the hole. Melusine stepped back, but Grizelda stood, unflinching, searching the darkness.

  She could see movement below. Cadaverous shapes leapt from rock to rock, swarming up. Monstrous figures emerged. There were bats and serpents, headless men and snake-haired women. Shadow creatures drifted up, flaming Demons, Shades and Wraiths. Trolls burst out of the darkness, clubs in hand. Vampires, their teeth bared, scrambled over the edge of the hole, ahead of the Mummies, their decaying cloth catching the rocks.

  Out they swarmed, pouring onto the earth, a frantic horde that surrounded Grizelda and Melusine. They bayed and stomped, hollered with rage, spears raised, clubs held aloft, scythes at the ready.

  The last to emerge was the hulking figure of the Behemoth. It clambered out of the hole, the earth shuddering as it moved. Its skin was thick as rhinoceros hide, its hands cankerous and hairy; two great tusks protruded from its bulbous head, a long trunk hanging between them. When it finally reached the ground, it tore through the web above and stood, its head poking out from the canopy.

  Silently, the cloud threaded its way back out of the hole and circled Grizelda again, becoming her cloak. She raised her hand and the horde fell still. ‘Behold, the NIGHTMARE army,’ she cried. ‘This night we will extinguish the last light of this wretched world. I claim it as ours. Prepare for war!’ A bloodcurdling cry rose as the NIGHTMARE army hollered and jeered.

  In ALETHEA, the Guardians and the crew of the Black Horizon froze.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered Sparks.

  ‘Come, my friends,’ the Yarnbard said, his hands outstretched. He stood by the candles in the centre of the hall. ‘It is time to for us to gather, to stand together, for I fear that, before long, the last great battle will begin and the NIGHTMARE army will be upon us.’

  Chapter 23

  Provisions

  I grab the packet and slip out of the shop, running back across the beach, the plastic crinkling in my hand. My heart’s thumping. I’m starting to get used to this snatch and run life. I don’t want to lose the rush it gives me. It’s the only thing keeping me alive at the moment.

  I rip the packet open and push the pastry out of its wrapping. I’m still running as I stuff it into my mouth. It tastes so satisfying. I’ve developed quite a craving for the sausage rolls they sell at the beach shop. I want to eat it all. So much. But I won’t. I’ll save some for Scoop. She’s not been looking well. And she’s becoming forgetful. It’s worrying me. She’s thin. It’s almost as if she’s starting to …

  I stop the thought. It’s an illusion.

  All of a sudden, my foot hits something and I trip, falling forward. I reach out to break
my fall and the sausage roll tumbles from my hand. Before I have time to scramble up, a seagull swoops down and grabs it, jamming its beak into the pastry.

  ‘Get off!’ I yell. ‘That’s mine!’ I push myself up and run at the bird, but it leaps into the air. If I wasn’t so angry, it would look comical, the sausage roll hanging from its beak.

  I shake my fist at it. ‘That’s mine!’

  It settles on top of one of the beach huts and watches me with greedy triumph. Then it plunges its beak into my food.

  I groan with frustration.

  We can’t go on like this. It must be nearly two weeks since we decided to break into the beach hut – I’ve lost track of time. Libby’s mum rarely goes out. When she does, it’s just to sit on the beach and talk to the gulls. She must have a pile of provisions in there. I just hope they’re not going to last much longer.

  The weather’s changing. It’s getting colder. When it rains, the air is left bitter. There was even a flurry of snow yesterday. Scoop and I huddle under our boat, trying to keep warm, but the tarpaulin is no real protection.

  We’ve managed to scavenge the odd thing from bins. It’s amazing what people throw away – an old blanket, a jumper, packets of barely touched food. We’re learning not to be fussy. We can’t be. We have to take whatever we can – or steal it. I’ve been slipping into the shop, coming out with crisps, chocolate bars … and the odd sausage roll. I haven’t been caught yet and I’m getting braver, taking risks, almost as if I want somebody to see me. But they don’t. It’s like I’m not there at all.

  When I get back to Scoop, she’s sitting just down from the boat, staring at the beach hut. Her face is drawn. She’s wearing an old blue jumper that’s far too big for her. It’s torn at one elbow. Underneath, I can see her red tunic, dirty and worn now. I wonder if her badge is still fastened to it – the book with the quill in the centre and “Blotting’s Academy” stitched in fancy lettering. That all feels like a lifetime ago now.

  I glance back at the boat. The two trolleys are still there, tucked away. I think I see two bodies on them. I might not want to admit that sometimes I see Scoop fading, but with our mother and the Storyteller, it’s undeniable. Sometimes when I look, they’re not there at all. Other times, I see the barest outline of a face or leg.

  I can’t look. It breaks my heart.

  I turn back to Scoop. ‘We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘We can’t carry on like this.’

  She ignores me. ‘Did you get food?’

  ‘I did.’

  Her face brightens.

  ‘But one of the gulls stole it.’

  She turns away, clearly angry.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ I snap. ‘I’m doing my best!’

  I wish I didn’t speak to her that way. But I can’t help it. I’m so tired.

  ‘Whatever.’

  I take a breath. ‘We can’t carry on like this,’ I say again. ‘We need food.’

  ‘You had food, but you lost it.’

  ‘I mean real food, not something just snatched from the shop – something actually filling.’

  ‘Well, what do you suggest, Fletcher?’

  I hate the way she spits my name.

  ‘I thought maybe I’d try to get across to the mainland, see if I can find something there. What do you think?’

  She glares at me. ‘Oh, right. And leave me here on my own?’

  ‘Well, one of us needs to stay and keep watch.’

  ‘And you’ve chosen yourself to have that adventure, have you?’

  ‘You go then! I don’t care! I’m just hungry. One of us needs to do something!’

  ‘No, I’ll stay here. You go and have a good time.’

  I start to say something but think better of it. Instead, I turn and walk away, my face hot with anger. I wasn’t planning to leave straight away, but my temper gives me energy. I stomp towards the jetty. It’s about a quarter of a mile away, through the maze of beach huts. Before long, I’m there.

  Half an hour later, I’m on a simple, wooden ferry crossing the lagoon behind the spit. It’s a natural harbour sheltered from the sea. I’m still fuming. The wind is blustery as the boat pushes out. I huddle in a corner at the back, my coat thrown over me. I’m going to take advantage of the fact I seem to be invisible. Sure enough, a ferryman with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, passes me without so much as a glance, as he collects money from the other passengers. I look back at the thin strip of sand, lined with beach huts, as we move away from it. Slowly, my anger begins to drain into weariness. I hope I’m going to be able to find provisions on the mainland. I’m not sure what to expect when I get there. I don’t know anything of this world, apart from the few hundred meters of beach we’ve been inhabiting. But I’m too tired to be scared. I just need something to go right for a change. I need to feel like someone or something’s on our side.

  The journey through the estuary takes about half an hour. We pass the remnants of a submerged tree, its dead branches sticking out of the water. I watch a gull with a fish hanging from its beak being chased by another bird. Slowly, the lagoon narrows into a river, its banks lined with tall grass. The boat bumps through the water. For a moment, the memory of an older, larger ship fills my mind, but it fades quickly, leaving only emptiness.

  Behind the tall grass, I see a tower appear, castle-like, shining in the winter sun. As we round a bend, it comes into view more clearly. A few moments later, we’re chugging past moored sailing boats. I study their names, The Wild Goose, Serenity and The Robin. Then, the ferry pulls up at a little jetty, and the ferryman throws a rope to his colleague.

  I stumble onto the riverbank, my head swimming. I try to take in where I am. A neat green runs along the edge of the water. There’s a bandstand, riverside cafés and the tower still visible above the houses. Not knowing where else to go, I wander towards it. I cross through a car park past a sign that reads, “Christchurch Priory”. A moment later, I’m heading through its grounds, the tower gleaming above me. I walk on, my legs carrying me forward without thought. Once through the grounds, I emerge onto what must be the town’s high street. It’s busy with shoppers. I stop. Ahead of me, a blue banner runs along the top of a shop. It reads, “Bookends: The Store with a Difference”.

  Bookends, I say to myself. The name feels familiar.

  And then I’m walking again, moving up the high street, passing card shops and patisseries, estate agents and clothing stores. People push past me, heading in the other direction. They don’t look at me; don’t acknowledge me in any way. The shoppers, the noise, the traffic – it’s overwhelming.

  Another sign catches my eye: “The Ship Inn” and, across the road, an optician named “Scriven.”

  Scriven.

  I keep walking, I don’t know what else to do. I find myself passing through an underpass. As I emerge, I see another shop: “Dream Doors: New Kitchens for Old”.

  A dream shop, I say to myself.

  My mind is churning. There’s something strange about this place, something almost familiar. I pass “Castle Home Hardware” and then “Starlight: Classic Bengali and Indian Cuisine”.

  Dream, Castle, Starlight, Bookend, Scriven, Ship … I turn the names over in my head.

  They stir something in me, the uncomfortable feeling that this place is a reflection of something I knew long ago.

  Or perhaps I’m the reflection. Perhaps I’m just an echo, an image, a shadow.

  The thought unsettles me and I stop. I find myself beside another inn: “The Railway”. A picture of a green steam engine spews smoke on the sign above. Curious, I turn the corner. A little further along I find a wide, red brick building. “Don’t smoke. Don’t ride bikes. Don’t skateboard or rollerblade. Don’t loiter on the platform”, a sign on the gate next to it reads.

  A high whine catches my ear. Moments later a huge metal engine snakes into view. I’ve never seen anything like it, so long, so sleek, so powerful. It pulls to a stop
and its doors slide open. A crowd pours onto the platform.

  This is a port, a land port.

  A boy whips past on a skateboard, nearly knocking me from my feet. Then the crowd streams through the little gate. I’m swept along and find myself walking again, retracing my steps, back past the Railway Inn, back through the underpass, back down the high street.

  Nobody sees me. Nobody speaks to me. I’m a figment, non-existent.

  And then it happens.

  A hand grabs my leg.

  I pull away, spinning round.

  ‘Get off,’ I hiss.

  A man with a cracked tooth is staring at me from where he lies on the floor, pressed into the corner of an arch, surrounded by plastic bags. His legs are covered with an old sleeping bag. He looks at me, his eyes wild.

  ‘I see you!’ he spits. He jerks his head into a nod. ‘I see you!’

  ‘What?’ I back away, my heart thudding. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘Me? I’m nothing. Nobody.’ Spittle flies from his mouth.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I say. But as the words leave my mouth I know I only half mean them.

  This man sees me.

  He’s the first person who’s not looked straight through me since we arrived in this forsaken world. I’d forgotten what it feels like to be seen. It scares me. I’ve got used to hiding. But I can’t turn away.

  The man nods again, slower this time. ‘Yes, I see you.’ He points. ‘I see you go up the street and I see you come back.’ Suddenly, he scrambles towards me. I step back. ‘We have to stick together, we do – us invisible ones.’ He points from himself to me.

  I’m not like you! I think. I’m a hero, an adventurer, son of the Storyteller! You’re a stinking down and out.

  But he sees me.

  ‘Here, wait,’ he says, scrambling back to his plastic bags. He rummages through them, his movement twitchy. Pulling something out, he turns back, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Take it!’ he says, thrusting a slip of paper towards me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Food. Take it.’