The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  She sits down again and taps her leg, distractedly. She glances at the door. ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t.’ Turning away, she bites her lip, but then looks back again. ‘It’s for Mum.’ Getting up, she sneaks onto the landing and leans over the banister to check for movement below. The TV’s still blaring. Creeping up the hall, she slips into the room next to hers. I follow to find myself in a dim bedroom, the curtains closed. It smells of sweat and stale deodorant. There’s a double bed in the centre, the duvet pulled up hastily. One wall is filled with mirrored wardrobes. This is her dad’s room. I don’t feel comfortable being here. Not turning on the light, Libby tiptoes around the bed and carefully opens his bedside drawer. Lifting a magazine, she riffles through it and pulls out a bulging leather wallet. Glancing at the door, she opens it. She stops, a strange expression on her face. I edge closer to see what the matter is. There’s a photo of Libby in the front of the wallet. She flips it away and begins to thumb through the wodge of paper inside. ‘Yes,’ she hisses, pulling out a few crisp notes. Stashing the wallet back in the drawer, she slips out of her dad’s room again and back into her own. Reaching her bed, she adds the new notes to the pile.

  ‘One hundred and ninety pounds. Yes, that will do.’

  Libby stuffs the money into her pocket and picks up her bag, throwing it over her shoulder.

  Moments later, we’re heading down the stairs again. She moves with urgency but still careful not to make them creak.

  Then, we’re out onto the street once more. The night is blacker now, colder. I gulp the cool air and realise I’ve been holding my breath.

  We walk quickly towards the bus stop. I can’t believe what’s happening. We’re going to Christchurch. We’re heading back to Scoop, to Mother and the Storyteller. I can scarcely contain the thrill I feel. We’re going back, and Libby is going to find her mother!

  Chapter 32

  Circles

  The morning’s bright. Too bright. It hurts my eyes. Flurries of snow swirl in the wind. The tarpaulin flaps, but I’m too tired to tighten it.

  I’m drawing circles in the sand. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing it. The motion is comforting. My fingers are red and there’s sand lodged under my nails.

  Round and round, round and round … I repeat to myself, trying not to think.

  After a while, my arm begins to ache, and I stop. I hug my knees to my chest, and I stare at the deep grooves in the sand. I feel numb.

  What am I doing here?

  I push the question from my mind.

  What am I doing here?

  Every time I stop making the circles, the same question torments me.

  What am I doing here?

  It won’t stop. It’s relentless.

  What am I doing here?

  It makes it hard to breathe.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I say aloud.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I hug my legs tighter.

  What am I doing here?

  I can’t remember.

  How did I get here, to this boat, to this beach?

  No answer comes back.

  I search the empty sand, my eyes darting.

  What am I doing here?

  My chest tightens. I’m too scared to move.

  I’ll wait. Somebody will come. They’ll come for me.

  Behind me are two empty trolleys. I know they’re here for a reason. I’m sure they are. But when I try to remember, my head hurts.

  I pinch the skin on my arm, needing to feel something. The pain wakes my senses. For a moment, I think I see a figure on one of the trolleys – a man, auburn hair trailing onto the sand, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken.

  I recognise him. At least I think I do.

  I stop pinching and the image fades.

  I want the tarpaulin to stop flapping. I want there to be an end to this cold. I want to fade.

  This is the end of the circle, I find myself thinking. I started with nothing. Then, I think, I found something. But now, I’m back to having nothing. Round and round, round and round.

  I reach forward and start to run my fingers around the grooves in the sand again. It feels soothing.

  Round and round, round and round …

  No memory, just circles in the sand.

  * * *

  I’m groggy. The wind stings my skin, waking me. After a day and a half of travelling, I’m back on the ferry, heading across Christchurch Harbour to Mudeford Quay. The boat bounces on the water. It’s late morning and the winter sun is bright. The ferryman wears a crown of tinsel around his woolly hat, although none of the merriment spills into his face. A cigarette still hangs from his mouth.

  Libby sits on a bench in the corner of the ferry, her knees drawn to her chest. She stares across the water with a faraway expression. Lank hair blows across her face, making her look dishevelled. In the rush to leave, she forgot to pick up a warm coat, and her skin is red and rough with goose bumps. She looks exhausted. It’s no wonder. The two of us spent the night wandering the streets of London, waiting for the first train to Christchurch.

  We walked along rich shopping streets, hung with lights, stopping to stare at models of fairy tales in the shop windows.

  We sat on the steps of a church, by a tall column and a huge Christmas tree, the sound of a choir spilling through its doors.

  We passed the sparkling signs of theatres.

  Libby seemed to be wandering without direction, walking just to keep warm.

  We avoided revellers staggering along the riverbank.

  We huddled in a doorway at the bottom of a grey, concrete bridge, until forced to flee by a drunken man, who seemed to be threatened by our presence.

  We nursed a mug of coffee in an all-night café.

  We waited on the concourse of Waterloo Station as the sun began to seep through the grey clouds.

  I say we, but really Libby did these things alone. I was just a shadow.

  On the train back to Christchurch, I dropped in and out of sleep. We were delayed by winter weather, but I barely noticed. By the time we reached Southampton, the train was packed with people heading to the coast for Christmas Eve.

  Now I’m on the ferry again.

  I’ve travelled hundreds of miles, and although I’ve only been away one night, it feels as though weeks have passed.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ the ferryman grunts, as he takes Libby’s ticket money. She doesn’t reply. ‘And Season’s Greetings to you, too,’ he mutters, moving to the next customer.

  The ferry is busier than I’d expected. Couples sit with arms entwined, families huddle together with gloved hands and flushed cheeks. A little girl waves a sparkly wand at the birds, whispering Cinderella spells. An old lady in an elf hat hands out sweets. There’s a festive atmosphere aboard. Only Libby and the ferryman look melancholy.

  I don’t know what to feel. I swing between excitement and doubt.

  Gradually, we draw closer to the row of beach huts, their colours muted in the winter light. This place: the beach, the harbour, the mud flats, the ferry, they seem so peaceful after the bustle of the city and the heat of the train. I feel like I’m approaching the edge of the world, a bridge to another realm.

  I wonder how Scoop’s getting on.

  I wonder if the Storyteller and our mother are safe.

  I’ll soon find out.

  Chapter 33

  Wisdom’s Last Treasure

  ‘The castle is breached,’ the Yarnbard whispered.

  He stumbled back to the circle to join the others. ‘Whatever happens, we must hold this circle. Do you understand?’ he said, his eyes fierce. The company nodded. ‘Whatever happens,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t let me down.’

  The sound of boots echoed upwards. Sparks shivered. She didn’t know if she could do it, if she could hold the circle. You will, said a voice inside, for the Yarnbard, for the Storyteller, for everything good in this world. And despite her doubts, Sparks knew the voice was right, she would hold the circle for as long as there was
breath in her.

  As she found her resolve, Freddo, Pierre and the Boatswain tumbled back into the Great Hall, swinging the door shut behind them. They braced it. A moment later there was a sickening thump as the NIGHTMARE army slammed into it. Then the pounding began.

  ‘We must carry on telling stories of the light,’ said the Yarnbard. ‘We must remember. Alfa could you continue––’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ interrupted Wisdom, ‘I would like to speak.’ The old man stared at her. There was sadness in his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Wisdom drew herself up straight. ‘I think the time has come to tell Wisdom’s Last Treasure.’ She took a deep breath and began.

  ‘I remember my childhood as though it were yesterday. It was idyllic. I played among the fruit trees, caught cherry blossom in the spring and kicked up showers of red and gold leaves in the autumn. Our orchard was full of song: the rich flute of the blackbird, the tinkling of goldfinch, the sweet melody of the nightingale.’

  A hammer blow struck the door, sending a shock wave through the Great Hall.

  Wisdom continued, undaunted. ‘My sister and I spent our days chasing kingfishers along the riverbanks and feeding doves. We were twins.’ She paused.

  Freddo and the Boatswain were straining to hold the door, their faces purple. Pierre spun away as an axe head smashed through the wood.

  ‘We are twins,’ Wisdom corrected, ‘born of the same flesh, made of the same substance.’

  There was a cry as the door to the Great Hall exploded into splinters. Grey hands stretched through, waving wildly, ripping the wood. The Boatswain tried to hack them back, but it was too late. The door gave way, falling forward and, with a holler, the NIGHTMARE army spilled into the ALETHEAN hall.

  Freddo tried to run, but a Troll seized him, picking him up by the scruff of his neck. He wriggled, but the creature lifted him high off the ground. It raised its club.

  ‘No!’ yelled Alfa.

  ‘Don’t break the circle!’ the Yarnbard commanded, gripping her tightly.

  There was a slurping sound, followed by a thump. Behind the Troll, a figure scrambled to his feet, appearing as if from nowhere. He was drenched, seaweed hanging from his hair.

  Seeing Freddo dangling from the Troll’s hand, he pulled a cutlass from his belt and threw it. The blade circled, flashing through the air. It struck the back of the Troll’s head and the creature fell forward, crashing to the floor with a swoosh.

  Freddo pulled himself free. Turning to the man who’d saved him, he said, ‘What took you so long?’

  The man grinned. ‘My timing’s impeccable.’

  The Dark Pirate, Sparks thought, her heart leaping. He’s back!

  Freddo and the pirate dashed to the circle, skidding across the floor to join them. The Boatswain, Christopher and Pierre were already there. They linked hands.

  ‘Thought you might need a little help,’ the pirate said. ‘Seems I was right.’

  Slowly, the NIGHTMARE army spread around the edge of the hall, a sea of bared teeth, raised weapons and bulging eyes.

  ‘Now, where was I?’ asked Wisdom.

  ‘You and your sister,’ Alfa spluttered. ‘But surely we can’t––’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  Behind Wisdom, Grizelda stepped into the hall. Taking in the scene, she hissed, ‘Attack!’

  ‘Right on time,’ said Wisdom, as the army of the night leapt towards them. ‘I’m not usually one for flashy shows, but I think this is the time for a little magic.’

  Wisdom let out a loud, clear call, something between an owl hoot and the cry of a stag.

  Whoa! thought Sparks, as she watched a Vampire’s face contort and a Banshee raise her hands to her ears.

  The call ended with a deep click that bounced from the walls.

  Outside the circle, time slowed. The onslaught of the NIGHTMARE army continued: limbs flailing, lips twisting, creatures lunging forward, but all as if pushing though water. As the NIGHTMARE army slowed, the candles in the centre of the hall rose, floating in mid-air, their flames casting long shadows.

  From the edge of the hall there was a slow clap. ‘Oh, very good, very swish. I’m proud of yer.’ It was Grizelda. She, like the circle, was unaffected by the slowing of time. ‘I’ll give yer one thing, you’ve got style. But you know yer only delayin’ the inevitable, don’t yer? Yer only drawin’ out yer sad demise. We’ve won. Come on, admit it. Yer can’t beat this lot. It’s over.’

  Wisdom sat up straight. ‘I’m telling a story. And I intend to finish.’

  Grizelda looked irritated. ‘Oh, do yer? Stories.’ She tutted. ‘Always stories. So tiresome. Alright, I’ll allow yer this one little indulgence – think of it as giving the condemned her last meal. Don’t say I ain’t generous, though. But you won’t stop us.’

  Sparks looked around. Grizelda was right. The NIGHTMARE army was still advancing. Swords were being lowered, axes brandished and chains swung. A surge of violence was about to break over them.

  Ignoring the onslaught, Wisdom continued.

  ‘When we reached our twelfth birthdays, it was announced that my sister and I were to be given gifts. We put on our prettiest dresses, mine the greens and golds of spring, my sister’s the rich reds of autumn. The gift was a bird each, two chicks for us to nurture and grow. I named mine Life. My sister named hers Knowledge.

  ‘Life was a fragile creature with plumes of pink, yellow and corn. But my sister’s bird had feathers of the deepest black. It was a crow.

  ‘Over the years, we watched our gifts grow. We launched their first flights, we gave them twigs for their nests, we observed them feeding: Life drinking the nectars of the tall flowers, my sister’s bird ripping carrion, its beak bloody …’

  The NIGHTMARE army was uncomfortably close now. Sparks could smell the foul breath of an orc. What was this madness? Why were they listening to a story as their enemies closed in? This would soon be over. Sparks didn’t want to die. She looked past Wisdom. On the other side of the circle, a black knight had pulled ahead of the pack. He was riding a jet-black charger, spit flying from the beast’s mouth. Slowly, the knight was lowering a lance and he was aiming it straight at Wisdom.

  Wisdom continued, unaware. ‘We both cared for our birds. We loved them equally. As they grew, we grew, but our branches spread in different directions.

  ‘Through the years, I’ve only ever had one bird, one love. She has been with me from the beginning. I’ve seen her take many forms, but it has always been her, always Life. But my sister’s crow multiplied, becoming many, until a great flock followed her wherever she went. She watched her birds grow and die, grow and die, only the murder surviving. As she watched this dance of birth and loss, the thing my sister came to fear most was death itself. Through her gift, she saw only parts, only separateness and endings. And so she declared all things to be folly, a name she chose to take for herself …’

  The lance was dangerously close now.

  ‘The knowledge of separateness carries a dreadful curse, a burden my sister has always had to bear. She has learnt to fight, to survive, never to let go or give in, no matter the cost. She’s become hardened to life like a crow tearing flesh.’

  Wisdom needs to do something! Sparks thought. She must move! We have to run! She opened her mouth to warn Wisdom, but the Guardian of Hidden Treasure looked at her. For a moment, it was as though Sparks and Wisdom were the only the two in the hall. In Wisdom’s eyes, Sparks saw her say, I know. It’s alright. Be still.

  Sparks closed her mouth.

  ‘But I know that Life is not separate,’ Wisdom continued. ‘All parts, all pieces, all ends are temporary, but Life is one. She does not end. That is why today, I’m able to pass my Life to my sister. There’s no loss. There’s nothing to defend.’

  Releasing the Boatswain’s hand, Wisdom reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny bird. She held it, cupped in the palm of her hand and ran her fingers through its bright feathers. The bird was small, not much more
than a chick, its crest still downy. It stared at her with big eyes.

  Wisdom opened her mouth, her eyes widening and her body tilting forward. Sparks gasped. The lance had struck. It moved, still in slow motion. It was piercing Wisdom right through her heart.

  Wisdom took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Today, I choose to put Life into the hands of Folly,’ she panted, ‘for Folly to choose to do with as she wills.’

  Wisdom lifted her hand and the bird sprang from it, spreading its wings. It flew above the NIGHTMARE army towards Grizelda.

  The tip of the lance appeared, pushing out through Wisdom’s chest, a bright circle of crimson spreading around it.

  ‘But as you take my Life, sister,’ whispered Wisdom, ‘know that once again you will bear our shared name. You will know that, from the beginning, you were meant to be the bearer of both Knowledge and Life – we heard it earlier, how you saved a boy from drowning. You may not see it, but you are a Life bearer too. This day, we close the circle. This day, I choose to share my Life with you. It will not end. It will continue in you.’

  As she finished, the little bird landed in Grizelda’s hand. Then, with a gasp, Wisdom slumped forward and did not breathe again.

  Sparks gripped Knot’s hand.

  Grizelda looked at the little bird and blinked. It stared back with big, innocent eyes.

  ‘Life?’ the old woman whispered.

  Chapter 34

  Empty

  As the ferry draws close to the jetty, music from a brass band floats across the water. Close to the café, I spot a group of musicians huddled together. Winter sunlight glints from their instruments, many of which have been wrapped in tinsel.

  The children wait impatiently for the ferry to dock. When it does, they leap onto the jetty, shouting and giggling, and run towards the band and the crowd gathered around it.

  I follow Libby. I’m finding it hard to think. I’m running through all the possibilities of what might happen now. This is it, our last shot. If we miss this …

  It’s not even worth thinking about, I tell myself, trying to quiet my mind.