The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  As we step onto the beach, the brass band strikes up another tune. ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,’ a choir sings out. They’re wearing garish Christmas jumpers knitted with polar bears, snowmen, reindeer and Christmas trees. Libby and I skirt around them, avoiding the festivities. As we pass, I notice there’s a table set out with colourfully wrapped presents. A group of silver-haired ladies are giving them to the children who’ve just arrived.

  We slip between the beach huts as the choir sings, ‘Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.’ The sound deadens, and the wind drops.

  Libby walks quickly, her fists clenched. She darts through the alleyways until we emerge further along the beach. It’s quieter here. The crowd are staying close to the café.

  Libby stops and glances one way and then the other.

  She’s trying to remember, I think. She’s trying to remember how to get to the beach hut. I wonder how long it’s been since she was last here. I picture the girl with the red spade. Was that the last time?

  Deciding which way to go, Libby sets off.

  Yes, that’s the way. She heads towards Scoop and the upturned boat. I follow, trying to control my breathing.

  We pass a hut with a red bird above the door, its wings spread, the name “Phoenix” written below.

  She’s going to find her! I speed up. She’s going to find her!

  We pass the tap where Scoop and I have been collecting water these past weeks.

  She’s going to find her!

  And then, we’re there, standing outside Libby’s mum’s beach hut. Libby pulls the photo from her pocket and checks it, looking up at the hut and then back to the picture. I can see the years that have passed since she stood here holding that red spade: the days at school, the violin practices, the nights eating pizza in front of the TV, the birthday parties, Christmases and holidays. And I see the disappointments too, the fallouts and broken friendships, teenage pressures and missed opportunities. And on top of it all, writ large, there’s the heartbreak of her mum’s disappearance.

  Pushing the photo back into her pocket, Libby climbs the steps onto the decking. She stops at the door, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Reaching into her coat pocket, she searches for something. It’s not there. She tries her other pocket, then pats her jeans. She’s getting agitated.

  What are you doing? Just knock!

  The brass band is still playing in the distance. The music mingles with the noise of the waves. This feels like a dream.

  Libby reaches out and tries the door. It doesn’t open. She groans in frustration and then thumps it, loudly. The noise echoes through the hut.

  I wait, barely daring to breathe. I should get Scoop. She should be here.

  But there isn’t time. I can’t miss this.

  I’m shifting my weight from foot to foot, just like Libby.

  Where’s her mum?

  A gull swoops down and perches on top of the hut. It cries out, a loud, vicious call.

  Where is she?

  Libby tries the door again, rattling the handle. It doesn’t shift. She bites her nails.

  What’s happening? Where’s her mum? She must be here. She never leaves!

  I move forward. Perhaps I can help. Perhaps I can call her.

  Libby peers through the window. The shutters are closed. She bends down, trying to peek through one of the slats.

  The hut looks empty.

  Shaking her head, she runs her hand through her hair and crouches on the porch, resting on her haunches. She bites her nails again. She looks lost. ‘Stupid,’ I hear her whisper. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  Wiping her eye with the edge of her sleeve, she stands. ‘Waste of time! Stupid!’

  No! What are you doing?

  As if in a dream, Libby walks down the porch steps.

  No! You can’t go! This is it! This is the moment!

  But she is going. She strides away across the beach. I look at the hut. It’s empty.

  This can’t be happening.

  ‘Stop!’ I scream. ‘She’s here! You’re in the right place! You haven’t come all this way for nothing!’ I’m shouting so loud my voice cracks. ‘Stop!’ But Libby doesn’t look back. It starts to snow again, big drops settling on my coat and my eyelashes. As she walks away, Libby pulls something from her pocket and drops it. It’s the photo. It lies crumpled on the beach, the spade like a blot of blood on the sand. Slowly, bright drops of white settle on it. I don’t know what to do. I watch, paralysed, as Libby walks away. Gradually, the red spade disappears beneath the snow.

  * * *

  A hand grabs my shoulder. I jolt awake.

  ‘Scoop!’

  The voice is urgent, harsh. The grip hurts.

  ‘Scoop! Wake up! It’s going wrong! She’s leaving!’

  I pull away, scrambling into the corner of the boat. ‘What?’

  I think I recognise the red-faced boy staring at me, but I can’t place him. He looks angry. It scares me.

  ‘Come on!’ he yells, his eyes bulging. ‘We have to do something!’

  I press myself back against the wood. ‘What?’

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ He eyeballs me. ‘Pull yourself together – we need to do something!’

  ‘Sorry … who … who are you?’ As the words leave my mouth, I know they’re wrong. I recognise this boy: his long, pointy face, his tight lips, the way his hair flops across his forehead.

  He opens his eyes wide, his expression changing. He looks disorientated, vulnerable.

  ‘Scoop, it’s me. It’s Fletcher. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Fletcher?’ I repeat, slowly.

  But his vulnerability only lasts a moment. His face hardens. ‘Look, we don’t have time for this!’ He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the boat. I struggle, but his grip is strong. ‘Come on!’ he yells. ‘I’m sorry, but you need to pull yourself together. She’s leaving!’

  ‘Who’s leaving? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Libby!’

  The name stirs something inside me.

  ‘She was here. She found the photo …’ he stops. ‘Look, I don’t have time to explain now. She’s here, but she’s leaving – that’s all you need to know. And we have to stop her!’

  He tugs my arm, pulling me along the snowy sand. I resist a little but let him drag me. There’s music in the distance. I zone out, losing myself in the sound. I examine the boy again. I definitely recognise him. Perhaps he’s the one I’ve been waiting for. We stumble on, our feet sinking into the snow. He’s hurting my arm.

  Where have I seen him before?

  No answer. The blankness terrifies me even more than this unknown, angry boy. Somehow, I’ve lost myself. And despite the fact the boy looks so furious, something deep inside me trusts him.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ he mutters. ‘We need to stop her!’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Where’s her mum?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes. Libby went to the beach hut. She knocked. There was no answer. You were supposed to be watching.’

  Was I? My cheeks flush.

  The boy pulls me around a corner onto a wide throughway between the beach huts. As we head away from the sea, the sound of the waves fades and the band’s music swells. I can see the musicians ahead, a crowd of people wearing woolly hats around them.

  Suddenly, a lady in a penguin jumper steps in front of us. The boy almost crashes into her. ‘What the––’

  She beams, her straggly hair blowing in the wind. ‘Hello again!’

  The boy goes to move round her. ‘Get out of the way!’

  I tug his sleeve. ‘Don’t be rude!’

  The lady looks thrown but continues to smile. ‘Don’t you recognise me? I met you the other day at the food bank.’ The boy peers past her to a jetty beyond the band. There’s a queue of people waiting for a ferry. The lady’s smile wavers. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I know people don’t like to talk about it. It’s just I recognised you and I thought I should say hello
. I’m Hilary, remember?’ She holds her hand out. ‘And you are …?’

  The choir suddenly busts into a new song.

  ‘Hark the herald angels sing …’

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ the boy says. ‘She’s going!’

  Trying to salvage the conversation, Hilary turns to me. ‘What about you, dear?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  I stare at her, fixed to the spot, searching the blankness. There’s nothing.

  I don’t know. I don’t know my own name. How can somebody not know their own name? I glance at the boy. I need to say something. He’s still staring at the people waiting for the ferry. What was it he called me earlier?

  ‘Scoop!’ I say.

  ‘That’s an unusual name, dear.’

  My cheeks burn. It is, isn’t it? It’s a stupid name.

  ‘We need to go,’ says the boy.

  ‘Of course, dear. I don’t want to hold you up, but as it’s Christmas, we’re giving out a few treats – spiced wine, sweet bread, and we have a present for each of you, if you can wait a few moments.’

  ‘We can’t!’

  The boy’s rudeness embarrasses me. I don’t know why. It’s not like we’re together. I don’t even know who he is, really.

  ‘I can!’ I say.

  Hilary smiles. ‘Lovely.’ Crouching, she picks up a little flask.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the boy hisses. ‘We’re going to lose her! Don’t you realise how important this is? This is it!’

  I shake my head, defiantly. For a moment, he looks hurt. Then he glares at me. ‘Fine! I’ll do it myself. I’ve always had to act alone when it mattered. I don’t even know why I bothered to wake you. You’re useless!’

  His words sting.

  Pushing past Hilary, he storms off.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Hilary says. ‘I do hope I haven’t––’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I interrupt, grabbing the little flask. It’s warm. A sweet smell drifts up.

  ‘Spiced wine,’ Hilary says. ‘Non-alcoholic, of course. It represents the blood of Christ on this most holy night.’

  I breathe in the fragrant scent. The music washes over me. My head feels fuzzy. The sound of the choir rises. ‘Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, hail the incarnate deity …’

  ‘There it is, right there,’ says Hilary. ‘That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it – the mystery of Christmas. That’s why we’re giving out this wine.’

  I don’t understand what she’s saying, but there’s something in her eyes that stills me.

  Putting the glass to my lips, I drink. The wine’s hot, its aroma fills my nose.

  I’ve tasted something like this before. A long time ago.

  My heart leaps at the glimmer of a memory, and heat radiates through me.

  I remember something!

  ‘Word made flesh, you see,’ Hilary says. ‘That’s what it’s all about – the creative force that speaks life into everything becomes real, becomes physical – the vastness of the universe veiled in the flesh of a little child. And you know what that means? Nothing is left out, nothing is rejected; everything, from the biggest to the smallest is included – that’s the good news.’

  My heart leaps. Noveltwist! I remember the name! That’s where I’ve tasted something like this before – Noveltwist Cordial. The wine gives me the same sensation, lifting me, clearing my head, waking me.

  I’m Scoop, daughter of the Storyteller.

  With a jolt, I remember the boy. Fletcher! He’s my brother.

  How could I forget?

  I peer past Hilary, looking for him. The group is still standing in line by the jetty.

  I remember it all: Fullstop Island, Blotting’s Academy, The Black Horizon, our journey here, crossing the boundary …

  Hilary’s still speaking. ‘Everything is in relationship, you see, from the tiniest baby to the furthest star. And you know what that means? It means it can all be made whole again – the rips can be mended. And we’re part of it, me and you, joined together in one great community.’

  And I remember Libby Joyner.

  Libby’s here! She’s here!

  Hilary hands me a chunk of bread. I take it without thinking, stuffing it into my mouth. It’s sweet on my tongue.

  ‘The body of Christ,’ says Hilary. ‘The word made flesh.’

  Seek the source.

  Libby’s mum’s letters come flooding back.

  We are the source, our relationship. That is where life is to be found.

  The choir swells. ‘… Risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by. Born that man no more may die. Born to raise the sons of earth. Born to give them second birth …’

  I must get to Fletcher. We must find Libby. We need to get her to turn back.

  Hilary thrusts something into my hand. It’s a long, thin box, wrapped in red and gold paper. ‘Open it,’ she says. ‘It’s for you.’

  I tear the paper, distractedly, still looking for Fletcher ahead. I understand why he acted the way he did now. I understand his urgency.

  Flipping up the lid of the box, I glance down.

  ‘It’s a pen.’ Hilary grins. ‘The Word made flesh, you see? It was Martin’s idea. He’s the theologian among us.’

  A pen.

  ‘It’s your pen.’

  And then it hits me.

  My pen. I stumble.

  ‘And here’s one for your friend, too.’ Hilary thrusts another box into my hand. ‘And a pad. What use is a pen without paper?’

  I look up, meeting Hilary’s gaze for the first time. For a moment, we see each other.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘I could see it. Well, Merry Christmas to you both. And God bless.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. And I mean it.

  I stumble forward, away from Hilary, my head spinning.

  I have a pen – my pen.

  The pen is not the source …

  Seek the source …

  I became a storyteller to join our worlds together. We are the source, our relationship.

  Libby Joyner. It’s there in her name.

  I became a storyteller to join our worlds together.

  In that moment, I know exactly what we need to do. I know what we’re here for and what we must become.

  Words must become flesh – that is the end of their quest.

  * * *

  ‘You can’t get on the ferry! You can’t!’ I hear his voice before I see him. Fletcher’s standing to the side of the jetty, yelling into the crowd. His face is blotched, his clothes ragged. But nobody pays him any attention.

  The ferry has docked and people are beginning to filter onto it. With a start, I see her there in the queue – Libby. She looks cold, her eyes red.

  ‘Fletcher,’ I call. ‘Fletcher. I know what we have to do!’

  He turns to me, his eyes wild. ‘We have to stop her!’

  ‘I know! Take this.’ Reaching him, I thrust the present into his hand.

  ‘What? We don’t have time. She’s––’

  ‘Just do as your told for once! Open the box.’

  To my surprise, he does as I ask. He rips off the paper and flips open the lid. He pulls out the pen.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with––’

  ‘Take this too.’ I tear a wodge of paper and hand it to him.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I became a storyteller to join our worlds together. That’s what Libby’s mum wrote in her letters.’

  ‘You read the letters?’

  ‘Yes. And I understand now. Words must become flesh – that is the end of their quest.’ Fletcher stares at me. ‘We are words, Fletcher, characters in a story. But our challenge is to become storytellers in our own right. That’s always been the end of our quest.’

  ‘Become storytellers? But––’

  ‘We have the power to write the future, to stop Libby getting on that ferry.’ I point at the pen in Fletcher�
�s hand.’ There it is, right there. It’s not magic. It’s not the source. It’s just a pen. The source is our relationship with Libby and her mother. We already have it. We need to stop pretending we’re somehow different. This is where we are now, here in this world. This is where we belong. We must embrace it. We must become fully flesh. That’s the only way we’ll see what’s broken joined together again.’ I hold up my pen. ‘So, will you join me?’

  * * *

  I stare at the pen in Scoop’s hand.

  Fully flesh.

  I remember Hilary’s conversation at the food bank: Words are important, but they need to be made real, they need to be made flesh.

  I don’t understand, not fully, but I know Scoop’s right. I feel it as I hold the pen.

  To my side, I see Libby boarding the ferry.

  ‘Will you join me?’ Scoop says again.

  I think what I’m about to do is going to change me, change the world I know. It’s a leap of faith, but what have I left to lose?

  I look at Scoop and nod.

  By the side of the jetty we kneel on the sand, lower the paper to the ground and begin to write.

  Chapter 35

  The Last Day of Advent

  Out of the corner of her eye, Scoop caught sight of a sudden movement on the ferry. She looked up to see Libby bound off the boat and sprint down the jetty, back towards the beach.

  ‘Look!’ she said, grabbing Fletcher’s sleeve. ‘Fletch, look! She’s coming back!’ Scoop frowned. ‘But something’s wrong. Why’s she running?’

  Libby leapt off the jetty and dashed towards the warren of huts. Disembarking from the ferry was a tall man, his shoulders hunched, the collar of his black, winter coat turned up against the wind. ‘What?’ Fletcher said. ‘No … it can’t be.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Fletcher pointed. ‘See that man? He’s why she’s running.’

  ‘Why? Who is he?’

  Scoop looked. The man had scruffy, black hair and his face was shadowed with stubble. He looked weary.

  ‘That,’ said Fletcher, ‘is Libby’s dad.’

  ‘Libby’s dad?’ Scoop could see the resemblance. He had the same deep-set eyes. ‘But … what’s he doing here?’

  Libby’s dad began to stride along the jetty. ‘I don’t know,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I’m going to find out.’ He turned to Scoop. ‘You follow Libby. I’ll follow her dad. I’ll meet you back at the beach hut, okay?’ He stared at her. ‘Perhaps there’s still a chance of turning this around, after all.’