The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  Scoop wasn’t sure she could allow herself to believe it. They’d been let down so many times, disappointed, tested to their limits. Was something finally going their way? Could the story finally be turning?

  Fletcher scrambled to his feet and dashed after Libby’s dad, heading towards the brass band. Pushing herself up, Scoop darted after Libby, careful not to slip on the ice.

  When she reached the alley along which Libby had disappeared, there was a trail of footprints in the newly fallen snow. Following them, she made her way back towards Libby’s mum’s cabin. When she reached it, Libby was staring at the hut, still as a statue. She had a strange expression on her face, as if scared.

  Not scared, Scoop thought. She looks as though this place has wounded her in some way.

  Steeling herself, Libby stepped forward. But she didn’t head to the door. Instead, she slipped around the side of the hut, making her way to the back of the cabin. Scoop followed to see Libby disappear down the narrow gap between the hut and the dune.

  Pushing into the gap after her, Scoop recalled the last time she’d been there, only days before – they’d been looking for a clue as to Libby’s whereabouts. Now Libby was here, right in front of her.

  Libby made her way to the window in the middle of the back wall. Reaching up, she ran her fingers under the shutters. A moment later, Scoop heard the lock give. Libby pulled the window open and scrambled up the wall. She was breaking in to the beach hut, just as they had.

  * * *

  Fletcher followed Libby’s dad past the brass band, past the café and through the group of ladies giving out gifts. He strode out across the snowy sand, towards the sea. When he reached the water, he stopped. The waves’ foam lapped around his feet, but he didn’t seem to notice. He stared across the choppy ocean, his coat crisp against the snow, the wind ruffling his hair. He stood like that for a few minutes, just staring. Then, bracing himself, he set off along the beach towards the upturned boat and Libby’s mum’s beach hut. Fletcher noticed a wodge of paper sticking out of his coat pocket.

  I recognise that, he thought. That’s Libby’s writing. What’s he doing with it?

  * * *

  Scoop gripped the windowsill, ready to follow Libby. As she began to pull herself up, there was a sharp cry from inside.

  ‘No!’ It was Libby. ‘No!’ The cry came again.

  Scoop scrambled up, pushing her elbows onto the sill to take her weight, her legs dangling down outside. Her heart was thudding. What was wrong? She froze, hanging half-in and half-out of the cabin.

  Libby was kneeling in the centre of the hut. Next to her, her mum was sprawled on the floor, her legs twisted awkwardly, her stick lying uselessly by her side. She was gripping a brush, a streak of red paint scrawled across the floor.

  She’s fallen, Scoop thought. That’s why she didn’t answer the door!

  Libby grabbed her mum’s hand. ‘Mum! Mum!’ She was breathing hard. ‘Mum! It’s me! It’s Libby.’ She leaned forward, turning her cheek to her mother’s lips, checking for breath. ‘Mum, it’s okay. You’re going to be alright. I’m here now.’ She unbuttoned the top of her mum’s blouse, her hands trembling. Then, half-hugging, half-pulling, she turned her onto her side. ‘I’ve found you! I’ve finally found you! Why did you go? We’d have looked after you. We’d have helped. It’s okay, I’m here now. I’ve found you … I’ve found you.’ Libby straightened up. There was red paint on her top. She twisted round to pull a cushion from the chair by the table. Libby’s mum’s eyes flickered, opening. She tried to focus on the person next to her.

  ‘Libby?’

  Libby spun back, the cushion in her hand. ‘Mum? You’re awake! Yes, it’s me. You’re okay. I’ve found you.’ Gently, she lifted her mum’s head and slid the cushion underneath. Her mum searched her daughter’s face, her eyes watery.

  ‘Libby? Is that really you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ Libby’s voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around her mum. The two women held each other. Scoop heard Libby’s mum whisper something, barely more than a breath. ‘I love you too,’ replied Libby, kissing her cheek. ‘I love you too.’ Kneeling in the centre of the cabin, she rocked her mum, gently.

  * * *

  CLICK.

  The sharp sound of a key in a lock broke the moment.

  Libby flinched, startled.

  Scoop looked up to see the latch of the door lift. With a creek, it opened a little. Winter light spilled through, throwing a stark shadow across the floor. Someone peeked around the frame, silhouetted. It was Libby’s dad. He scanned the room, taking in the scene, then stepped into the hut, his winter boots heavy on the floor.

  ‘Dad!’ Libby gasped. She tried to speak. ‘I’m sorry … I was just … I just needed to …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ her dad said, his voice low. ‘Calm down. Breathe. I’m not angry.’

  Gently, he closed the door.

  Scoop looked back at Libby.

  ‘What?’ she said aloud. Her elbow slipped from the window and she almost fell. She scrambled back up, gripping the frame, her knuckles white.

  But … How …?

  The wooden boards next to Libby were empty.

  Libby’s mum had vanished.

  What’s happened?

  Scoop scanned the room, searching for the body. Had Libby moved her? No. There hadn’t been time.

  There was no sign of a body, no stick, no paintbrush. Libby’s mum had gone.

  And then Scoop noticed it: a faint trace of red where, moments ago, the body had been. But it was barely visible, as if the floor had been scrubbed.

  Libby’s dad walked quietly across to his daughter and knelt beside her. She was shaking. He put his arm around her. The two of them knelt, staring at the place where Libby’s mum had lain.

  Outside the hut, Scoop felt something brush her leg. Flinching, she looked down. Fletcher was below.

  ‘Don’t do that to me!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. He was carrying a wooden crate. ‘I thought this might help.’ Standing it on its end, he slipped it under Scoop’s feet. She stood on it, the box taking her weight. Fletcher climbed up next to her.

  ‘Fletcher …’ she began.

  ‘I know. I saw it too. I was peeking through the front window. She was there … and then she vanished. She faded, just like …’ He paused.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a Mortale,’ Fletcher stared at Scoop. ‘Just like the Storyteller and Princess.’

  ‘But how?’

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Libby’s dad was leading Libby to the armchair in the corner of the room. Her skin was pale. He guided her to sit. Once she’d settled, he pulled the chair from the table, drew it close and sat, facing her.

  Scoop’s mind was churning.

  When she’d seen Libby’s mum on the beach, she’d vanished.

  As they’d followed her to the ferry, nobody had seen her.

  She looked at the floor of the hut. It seemed so empty.

  This whole place feels empty, as if it hasn’t been lived in for months.

  She glanced at the mouldy plates, remembering the dust on the surfaces, the algae in the water glass.

  Scoop frowned.

  No. She didn’t like that thought. She pushed it away.

  Libby’s dad gazed around the cabin. ‘Do you remember when Mum made you that sand sculpture?’ he asked. ‘She tried to carry it in on a picnic blanket. She wanted to keep it. But it collapsed as she brought it through the door. There was sand everywhere.’

  ‘It was a dolphin,’ Libby replied, quietly.

  ‘Ha yes, that was it. I’d forgotten.’ He paused. ‘We had some good times here, didn’t we?’

  Silence.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d notice,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘That I’d gone.’

  Her dad rubbed his eyes. ‘Of course I noticed, Libby. You’re my daughter. You weren’t in your bed this morning. It
’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. I had your presents ready to show you. You know I like to give them to you early so you have time to guess what they are, just like …’ His voice trailed away. ‘Anyway …’

  Libby glanced up. ‘How did you know I’d be here, though?’

  Her dad pulled the wodge of papers from his pocket. ‘This. You left it on your bedroom floor.’

  ‘Dad, you shouldn’t have––’

  ‘I’ve been reading it, Libby. I’ve read it all – on the train on the way here. It’s good. Really good.’

  Libby shook her head.

  ‘It is. You have talent … just like your mum.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Her dad paused again. ‘You wrote her into your story …’

  She wrote her into the story? Scoop turned to Fletcher. ‘She wrote her into her story,’ she whispered. ‘Then, she is a Mortale – like us.’

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘Part of her, perhaps. But not all of her. She’s still Libby’s mum, she’s still flesh.’

  ‘Yes. But even part of her …’

  The thought was there again. Scoop shook her head. It couldn’t be.

  Libby’s dad continued: ‘And you wrote this place into the story too. When I read it, I knew this is where you’d be.’ He stared at the floor. ‘I’m in it too. A little.’ He looked sad. Glancing up, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Libby.’

  ‘Dad, you don’t have to––’

  ‘I do, though. Reading this has made me realise how far we’ve drifted, how absent I’ve been. I’m sorry for that, I really am …’

  ‘Dad, really it’s––’

  ‘Let me finish. I’m not very good at this.’ Libby fell still. ‘When your mother died––’

  ‘Dad!’

  Died? Did he just say died! But …

  Scoop struggled to breathe. The thought she’d been trying to push away could no longer be ignored. What they’d seen earlier – Libby’s mum on the floor – it was a memory, nothing more. Libby hadn’t come here to find her mum, she’d come here to remember. This was a memorial. The faint trace of red that stained the floor was all that was left of the moment itself.

  Libby’s mum was dead.

  Scoop’s mind was reeling. If that was true, what had this all been about? The quest to the Threshold, crossing through it, life beyond the Uncrossable Boundary, what had it been for? They’d been sent to reunite mother and daughter. But that was impossible.

  It had been a futile quest right from the start.

  All this time, the beach hut had been empty. What they’d observed of Libby’s mum was a collection of memories, ghosts, scraps of truth stitched together to make a story, a fantasy Libby wanted to believe – that her mum was still out there, waiting to be found.

  She and Fletcher were part of that story. It was the only thing that made sense of their existence.

  But it was a lie.

  Libby’s mum was dead.

  Scoop couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move.

  She stared at Libby. How could she do this to them?

  Reaching forward, Libby’s dad laid a hand on his daughter’s knee. ‘You need to accept it. You can’t go on pretending. Mum’s gone. You need to let her go.’

  Libby turned away.

  Her dad lifted the wodge of paper. ‘In this,’ he said, tentatively, ‘you say I stopped her writing. That I was against it.’

  ‘You were.’

  Her dad’s body tensed. ‘Perhaps, towards the end. I thought it was confusing her, muddling her head. She became obsessed. She cut me out, cut everybody out. That’s why she ran away, wasn’t it, why she went missing. If she hadn’t finally written to you, if you hadn’t found her here, we’d never have had those last few months together. That damned writing book would have stolen––’

  ‘Perhaps she left because she couldn’t cope with being ill, Dad. Perhaps it was that simple. You can’t blame a symptom and pretend it’s the disease. I think her writing helped her make sense of it.’

  Her dad’s shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I did get it wrong.’ He held up Libby’s writing again. ‘But this is wrong too. It’s not the whole story. When we were younger, your mum and me used to talk about her stories all the time. She’d share them with me. We came up with ideas together.’ He shook the papers. ‘We talked about this story, you know, these characters. I came up with an idea for how Fletcher and Scoop would finally graduate from Blotting’s Academy.’

  Libby looked up, her brow furrowed.

  ‘I know. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘What was the idea?’

  Her dad gave a small smile. ‘I suggested they should become human, become flesh. I thought that would make a good end to their quest, for them to become a real boy and girl – like in Pinocchio. I joked with your mum, saying that then they’d be able to write our story, they’d become our storytellers and we’d be characters in their tale. Your mum laughed, but I could tell she liked the idea.’

  Fletcher was about to speak when he saw a movement by the door. The latch was lifting. Unnoticed by Libby and her dad, the door opened, and two figures slipped in. They were thin, insubstantial, almost ghosts, but Scoop recognised them.

  ‘Storyteller?’ she whispered.

  Fletcher stared. ‘Mother?’

  ‘They’re awake.’

  The Princess closed the door behind her.

  Libby’s dad was still speaking. ‘The thing is, when I was reading what you’d written, I couldn’t help but see your mum in it. Not just in the parts you’ve written about her, but in all of it. She flows through this –’ he tapped the pages – ‘like … like the Thames through London. She’s in all of it.’

  Slowly, the Storyteller and Princess moved around the edge of the hut, towards Libby and her father. And as he spoke, their bodies started to become solid again.

  ‘It helped. You know, I don’t use words like this often – I’m a Yorkshireman after all – but reading this was … somehow healing. As I read, it was as though, even though she’s gone, she was still with me. I don’t know if that makes sense?’

  Libby gave a little nod.

  The Storyteller and Princess moved closer. Their skin, their hair, their clothes were becoming more real. By the time they reached the armchair, they looked more alive, more awake, than Fletcher had ever seen. The Storyteller’s auburn hair shone, and the Princess’s skin was radiant. They stood beside Libby and her father.

  ‘I mean, in a way she is still here, isn’t she? In this hut, in our memories. And she’s in you. I see her in you so much. She’s in this, too, in your writing.’

  The Princess stepped forward and laid a hand on Libby’s shoulder. Reaching out, she placed her other hand on her father’s back. Then, looking up, she met Fletcher’s eyes. A deep peace filled him. This was what their quest was about.

  Seek the source.

  Relationship is the source.

  Here it was, right in front of him – being played out between Libby and her father.

  The Princess smiled. Now, you understand. She seemed to glow. An intense, golden haze surrounded her. Fletcher had to shield his eyes. As he did, he heard the sound of a breath being released. It sighed through the hut. And when he looked back, the Princess had gone. Wisps of golden mist floated around Libby and her dad. Gradually, it seeped into them and disappeared.

  Libby breathed in.

  ‘She’s inside them,’ whispered Scoop.

  Libby’s dad continued. ‘What I really wanted to say, Libby, is that you should keep doing this. Keep writing. You’re good at it. I got it wrong with your mum. I won’t get it wrong with you. I promise.’

  Now the Storyteller stepped forward. Just as the Princess had done, he placed his hands on Libby and her dad.

  ‘I promise to support you, Libby.’ Her dad gave a bashful smile. ‘I’ll be your biggest fan. It might get embarrassing, you know.’

  The Storyteller began to glow. The air was charged.
This was a sacred moment.

  ‘This is a fresh start, Libby. No more hiding. No more being separate. We’re Joyners, after all.’

  The Storyteller’s body burned bright, glowing like a candle. His light filled the room. Just before Fletcher had to look away again, the Storyteller met his gaze.

  Well done. You are no longer apprentices. On this last day of Advent, I name you fully fledged Adventurers, graduates of Blotting’s Academy. Be alive!

  Then, with a blinding flash of light, the Storyteller also vanished.

  Libby breathed in deeply once again, her back straightening. She seemed to grow.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said. ‘You don’t know how much that means. Perhaps I can do this, after all.’

  ‘You can,’ her dad replied. ‘And, I have something that might help. I found it with your mum’s letters under the floorboards, after we found her here.’ He lowered his head. ‘But I couldn’t deal with it at the time.’

  Standing, he walked across to the loose floorboard, feeling for it with his feet. When the board gave, he knelt and prized it up. It sprang back with a crack. Reaching into the hollow, he pulled out a small, red book. Blowing the dust from it, he brought it to Libby. ‘This was your mum’s. It’s her last piece of writing – the end of her story. Perhaps you can find a way to weave it into yours.’

  Libby stared at it. This was her last opportunity to read, fresh, her mum’s words.

  ‘Go on,’ her dad said. ‘Read it to me.’

  Libby took the book and ran her fingers over the waxy cover. She opened it. Her mum’s handwriting was there, the ink blue, little smudges where the pen had run, sentences crossed out and amended, doodles at the edges of the page. She imagined the pen in her mum’s fingers, moving across the page, creating a world that bubbled up from inside her, that carried her mum’s spirit with it. The handwriting was familiar. But these words were new. Slowly, savouring them, Libby began to read.

  Chapter 36

  Life

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