The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  Food?

  ‘You need it,’ he says, seeing my hesitation. ‘I know. I see the signs. We’re the same. We’re – unseen, forgotten. But I see.’

  ‘How’s it food?’

  ‘Voucher. I’m not s’pposed to give it you. S’pposed to be a “designated provider”, but I don’t mind! Take it to this place.’ He turns it over and jabs the back. There’s a leaflet stapled to it with a map. ‘You get food there.’

  He holds out the voucher.

  I reach forward and grab it. It reads, “Christchurch Food Bank”.

  ‘Good,’ he says, looking pleased with himself. ‘You need it. I can get more. Now go, get food! Go! Go!’ He waves me away, nodding again.

  My stomach grumbles and I nod.

  Invisible? Unseen? Perhaps we aren’t so different after all, I think, as I turn away and head along the street in the direction of the food bank.

  * * *

  I follow the map until I arrive at a tall, red brick building with a pointed roof. There’s a large wooden door to its front but it’s locked. I venture round the side and find a smaller door that’s ajar. Fastened to the wall next to it, an inconspicuous little notice reads, “Christchurch Food Bank: Opening Times”. Nervously, I push the door open and edge in. I find myself in a high-ceilinged room, lined with tall shelves, stacked with green crates. Through the gaps in the crates I see boxes and tins of food. My belly grumbles again.

  Ahead, a young woman stands at a counter that separates the shelves from the entrance. She rocks a baby in buggy a little too forcefully. The child is asleep though, her head to one side, a thread-bear teddy clutched in her hand. An older lady stands behind the counter, wearing a baggy orange jumper, a green tabard over it with a badge labelled “Hilary” pinned to it. She’s packing food from one of the green crates, every so often stopping to brush straggly, silver hair from her eyes. Through a door behind her, I glimpse other people in green tabards busying themselves with crates of food. The two women are talking. I edge closer to listen.

  ‘How much do you get paid for doing this then?’ asks the young woman. She bites her fingernail.

  Hilary smiles. ‘Paid? Oh no, we don’t get paid. This is voluntary.’

  The young woman’s eyes widen.

  ‘We’ve got some good stuff today,’ Hilary says. ‘Cereal, tea, pasta, tinned potatoes and biscuits.’ She leans over the counter and smiles at the child. ‘How’s the little one doing?’

  ‘Okay, yeah … okay,’ replies the young woman, defensively.

  Hilary smiles and then finishes packing the bag. She holds it out and the young woman grabs it, stuffing it under the buggy. She stops for a moment and glances up. ‘But, why – why would you do that?’

  ‘Give of my time you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, you know … to people like … you know …’ She looks away and fusses with the bag.

  ‘I’m no different to you, dear. I’ve had my share of hard times too – we all have.’ Hilary pauses. ‘I do this because I believe in more than just words. I mean don’t get me wrong, words are important, but they need to be made real, they need to be made flesh.’ The young woman frowns. ‘I just believe you have to do something, you know?’ Hilary adds with a shrug. ‘I’m a practical person.’

  ‘Oh,’ the young woman says. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ She gives a curt smile and takes the brake off the buggy. ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ she says to her sleeping child.

  Hilary stares at the door as the woman disappears. Her smile melts into a faraway look.

  I’m left standing in the middle of the room, feeling awkward.

  Just as Hilary’s turning back to the shelves, she hesitates and stares in my direction. Her eyes focus. ‘Oh,’ she says, blinking. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ She frowns at me. ‘Have you been there long? Have you come for food, dear?’

  I nod.

  ‘Come here, then. Don’t be timid. Have you got a voucher?’

  I nod again. Approaching the counter, I give her the slip of paper. She studies it and then looks at me. ‘How old are you, dear?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Quiet one, eh? That’s okay. A lot of people are shy when they first come here. Now, let me see, I’m guessing you’re no more than fourteen or fifteen.’ She waits for me to respond. I give a little nod. ‘Okay, well you’re in luck. They’ve just changed the rules. I can give food to under sixteen’s now.’ She stares at me. ‘But we’re supposed to have a little chat, you know? I’m supposed to find out if there’s anything else you need, anything we can help with.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ I say, bluntly.

  ‘Yes, well … next time, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie.

  Hilary looks unsure, but pulls a pen from her tabard pocket and ticks some of the boxes on the voucher. ‘I’ve filled it in as best as I can. But next time we must have that little chat, okay? Anyway,’ she says, her face brightening, ‘let’s see what we’ve got.’ She ducks behind the counter and pulls out another green crate. ‘Beautiful day out there, isn’t it?’

  Is it? I hadn’t noticed. ‘It’s cold,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, not long until Christmas. Are you looking forward to it, dear?’

  I shrug, not sure what to say. I watch her packs fruit, vegetables, some tins and a box of cereal. My mouth is already watering. I want to grab the bag and get out. I need to eat!

  Hilary glances up as she packs. I feel the same tightness in my gut as when the homeless man looked at me.

  She sees me.

  Finishing packing, she holds out the bag. I take it, impatient to leave, but as I do, she lays her hand on mine, holding me there. Her skin is cold.

  ‘If you need any help,’ she says, ‘you just come here and ask for Hilary, okay?’

  I nod, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘Good,’ she says, releasing my hand.

  I pull away, shaken by the intensity of her gaze.

  She sees me. She sees who I am.

  ‘I’ve put an extra bar of chocolate in there.’ She winks. ‘A little treat for the winter.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As I leave, I glance over my shoulder. Hilary’s watching me. She turns away, obviously not wanting to be caught staring.

  As I walk away from the food bank, I replay what I heard Hilary say to the young woman. I believe in more than just words … words are important, but they need to be made real, they need to be made flesh.

  I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sticks in my head and I can’t shake it. As I walk back to the ferry, I repeat it over and over: words are important, but they need to be made real, they need to be made flesh.

  Chapter 24

  The First Assault

  The Yarnbard gathered the crew of the Black Horizon and the remaining Guardians around the candles by the silver pool. They waited in an uneasy cluster. Even Rufina was among them, although she hadn’t spoken since being told about Nib’s death.

  Sparks sat on the cold, stone floor. She fidgeted, fiddling with her fingers, trying not to think about the spine-chilling cry that had just echoed across the island.

  She squinted at the candles. They sparked and flared. They looked dangerously low, as if the slightest gust of wind would extinguish them.

  Freddo had climbed the stairs in the wall next to the Great East Window and was staring out along the valley, through one of the clear panes of glass. He looked tiny under the huge, curved arch.

  ‘What do you see?’ the Boatswain called.

  He leant against the glass, shielding his eyes from the moonlight’s glare. Shadows from the window’s tracery fell across his face. He didn’t look well. ‘They’re coming,’ he said, ‘along the river path from the village.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Pierre.

  Freddo shook his head. ‘I don’t know. A mob of some kind … but not like any mob I’ve seen before. There are …’ he said, and paused, trying to find the words, ‘half-animals … beasts of different kinds … giant folk … and riders, I can
see riders – riders without heads.’ Sparks shuddered. ‘Leading them is a huge beast. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as tall as the Scythe and it’s ripping through the web as if it’s nothing more than tissue.’

  Sparks thought she could feel the floor trembling. ‘What are they?’ she asked.

  ‘They are the NIGHTMARE army,’ said Mr Snooze. ‘They’ve been loosed from their prison deep below the earth, and now they seek vengeance.’

  ‘Vengeance? But what have we ever done to them?’

  Wisdom spoke, her voice quiet and clear: ‘Like all darkness, their cause is driven by blindness. They don’t perceive the goodness that surrounds us, that lives in each of us. To them, this world is cold. It’s heartless. So, that’s what they reflect. They don’t know love. They’re burdened with many ills: fear, self-loathing, rejection and pain of all types. All they desire, is to see an end to their misery, to finally extinguish the lights of a world, which for them holds no joy.’

  Sparks shook her head. ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘We must keep the lights alive,’ said the Yarnbard. He pointed at the candles. ‘These are the lights of the Storyteller and Princess. While they burn, there is still hope.’

  ‘But there are so many of them,’ Freddo called, beginning to descend the stairs, ‘and so few of us. How can we ever defeat them?’

  Wisdom spoke again: ‘We have more help than you realise. Their belief that this world is nothing but darkness is a lie. It will show itself as such. And remember, darkness cannot cross into ALETHEA of its own choosing. That law is deeply sown and clearly written. They will not breach these walls while we stand strong.’

  ‘Should we not go out to meet them,’ the Boatswain asked. ‘Surely that’s the hero’s way?’

  ‘No, that’s vanity. We won’t defeat the NIGHTMARE army on its own terms. They are too strong for us. We won’t overcome strength with strength; instead we must overcome blindness with light.’

  ‘Come, we must form a circle around the flames,’ said the Yarnbard, ‘a circle that must not be broken. Circles are strong, my friends. They have no beginnings or endings, making all equal. It is from this place of togetherness that we’ll make our final stand. From here, we’ll keep darkness at bay and magnify the light.’

  ‘How?’ asked Sparks.

  The Yarnbard looked at her, his eyes glistening. ‘By telling stories – the stories of our world. By keeping them alive. They are our light, our strength. You are apprentices at Blotting’s Academy, even here, even now. How else did you imagine we would take our stand? The stories we tell will shine brighter than any weapon darkness can turn upon us. Come now, sit with me.’ Slowly, the Yarnbard lowered himself to the ground and settling, reached out his hands. One by one, the rest of the company joined him. Sparks took Christopher’s hand. His skin was rough and warm. To her other side, Knot reached out. She placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers and she felt his grip comfort her. Gradually, the circle formed, an unbroken chain surrounding the flames. When all were settled, the Yarnbard spoke. ‘So, who will begin? Who will tell the first story?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ a deep voice replied from beside Sparks.

  ‘Good,’ the Yarnbard said, turning to Knot. ‘Then, if we’re all sitting comfortably, it’s time to begin.’

  * * *

  Grizelda surveyed the jagged rocks of the GREAT WHITE CLIFF. The golden dome of ALETHEA perched on top like a jewel waiting to be plucked from a crown. ‘Mine,’ she whispered. ‘Finally, mine.’

  She turned to face her troops. Melusine had organised them into regiments. An army of Headless Horsemen made up the right flank, their black, skeletal steeds pawing the ground. Next to them, the Vampires stood in disciplined rows, resplendent in long, ebony cloaks and blood red breastplates. The Zombies were next. They were a much less ordered bunch. They scratched their peeling skin and twitched, shuffling and staggering. Frozen, beside them, were the Mummies, like ancient statues, arms outstretched, faces concealed beneath soiled bandages. An army of Medusas, hair writhing, perched on the rocks to the side of what once had been the SILVER LAKE (now just a puddle in the centre of a muddy ditch). They averted their eyes so as not to turn other parts of the army to stone. In front of them, a wailing, keening gaggle of Banshees swung their tangled hair, proclaiming the deaths of all in the castle. Trying to stay out of the way, a group of Trolls and Giants played knucklebones with the rocks. Behind them all, the Behemoth towered, its body swaying in the moonlight.

  ‘Right,’ Grizelda said to Melusine. ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we? We’ve waited long enough. Get that useless, fat beast to signal the start of the battle.’

  Melusine looked up at the Behemoth and waved. It didn’t see. She hissed and waved again, jumping slightly. Seeing her, the Behemoth straightened up. Its head reached nearly half way up the GREAT WHITE CLIFF. As it took a breath, the air around the NIGHTMARE army swirled, and the Vampires’ cloaks billowed. The creature raised its trunk and let out an ear-splitting trumpet. The noise echoed down the valley, sending rocks toppling from the top of the gorge. It was heard as far as TALL TALE TREE FOREST, where the trees bent backwards in alarm. Across the island, the Gigan Ticks retreated into the safety of their web. Some of the NIGHTMARE army shrank in terror, others joined the blast with hollers and shrieks. Only Grizelda stood, unmoving, her eyes fixed on ALETHEA, high on the top of the cliff.

  ‘Send the Vampires,’ she whispered.

  Melusine took a breath. ‘Vampires advance.’

  The blood-starved soldiers moved forward in perfect unison, the clicks of their boots ricocheting from the hills. As they approached the base of the cliff, they mutated. A wave of half-bat, half-lizard creatures leapt onto the rocks, clinging to them. They darted up. Grizelda watched the band of dark bodies move higher, but as they neared the top of the cliff, they sprang away, leaping into the air, becoming a cloud of bats. They descended again and transformed back to their human forms. One of the Vampires brushed himself down and shook his head at Melusine.

  Grizelda tutted. ‘Alright. Let’s see if you can do any better, shall we? See that?’ She pointed to a cave in the base of the cliff. ‘That used to be hidden behind the waterfall, that did.’ Only a pitiful dribble now trickled down the rocks, making the opening clear to see. ‘That’s the underground entrance to ALETHEA. In there, you’ll find a door to the castle. Take some of yer Shapeshifters and see if they can shift ‘emselves past it. Some of ‘em are so thin in the brain, they might just be able to slip through the cracks; not namin’ any names o’ course.’

  Melusine beckoned a small group of Shapeshifters. One by one, they slipped into their animal forms. A troop of rats, termites and bugs moved towards the tunnel. Melusine was the last to transform. With an angry flick of the tongue, her snake form slithered to join its faction.

  Grizelda watched as the creatures crawled and scuttled into the tunnel. She tapped her foot, irritably. It wasn’t long before a rat scuttled back out, followed by the other creatures. One by one, they transformed back into their human shapes.

  ‘I thought as much,’ Grizelda muttered.

  Melusine began to speak. ‘We couldn’t––’

  ‘Shut it.’ Grizelda cut her off. ‘I don’t have time. My patience is wearing thin. Send the Giants.’

  Melusine glared. ‘Giants! Advance!’

  The bare-chested goliaths dropped their Jacks and lumbered forward, sploshing through the muddy lake. Muck flew through the air, splattering the regiments. Reaching the cliff, the Giants lifted Thor-like fists and began to pound the rock.

  Chapter 25

  Invasion

  I shake Fletcher’s shoulder. I’m not gentle. His eyes spring open and he scrambles to his feet, looking disorientated. The bags of food he brought back a few days ago are empty, thrown into the corner of the boat.

  ‘What––’ he begins.

  ‘She’s leaving.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Libby’s mum. Who do you thi
nk?’ I can see his eyes focusing as he drags himself from whatever dream world he’s been occupying. I jab him in the arm.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to do something useful?’

  He blinks. ‘She’s leaving?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Not just to feed the gulls?’

  ‘No. She’s carrying empty shopping bags and she doesn’t have her chair with her.’

  He takes in what I’ve said and grins. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  It’s been a while since he spoke to me with that dry, sarcastic tone. My heart lifts. I’d almost forgotten what a good team we make … how much I love my brother.

  ‘I was waiting for you, Fletch,’ I reply. ‘I still am …’

  He strides towards the beach hut. ‘Then how come I’m still in the lead?’ I hear him say.

  Catching up with him, we peek around the corner of the alley beside Libby’s mum’s beach hut. She’s already part way along the beach, leaning heavily on her stick.

  ‘We’d better get on with this, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Wait. Not yet. Let’s make sure she’s definitely leaving.’

  I nod. ‘Okay. Good idea.’

  We follow her to the jetty, always staying a few metres behind, sneaking through the warren of alleyways. She walks determinedly, ignoring those she passes. Nobody pays her any attention. I feel like a spy. We’re on an adventure again. It makes me feel alive.

  Sure enough, we watch as Libby’s mum boards the ferry and sets off across the lagoon. ‘We probably only have an hour,’ I say. ‘The ferry runs every twenty minutes, and I don’t think she’ll want to hang around on the mainland any longer than she has to.’

  ‘No,’ Fletcher agrees. ‘We’d better get on with it then. So … how are we actually going to get into the hut?’

  I smile. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Fletcher. Follow me.’

  * * *

  Back at the beach hut, I lead us to the far corner of the cabin. There’s a narrow gap that cuts into the dune. We squeeze down it. The cabin is dilapidated, its paint flaking. The smell of mould is pungent. I stop by a small window in the centre of the back wall and slip my fingers under its shutters. Running them along the rough wood, I find a catch.