Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale) (15 page)

There was a sharp yelp and the sound of dogs fighting ceased and the woods went quiet. Crimson heaved the hound off her and got to her feet. Below her, yellow eyes glowing in the gathering dark, a large black and white wolf walked over to her. The wolf stopped and sat at the bottom of the pyramid of rocks.

‘Hello, Crimson,’ she growled. ‘Hi, Calamity.’

Crimson managed a weak smile. ‘Hello, Flyte. How did you find us?’ She sat on a rock and listened to Flyte’s low, rumbling bark.

‘I heard the dog baying. I’d never heard anything like it before but it didn’t sound good. So I thought I’d best come and have a look,’ the wolf explained.

‘I’m glad you did’ said Crimson.

‘I’ve never fought any animal before. I hope I never have to do it again,’ said the wolf. ‘I was relieved when the hound gave up and ran off. I didn’t want to hurt him . . . too much.’ There was sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re OK, Crimson. And I know I’d do the same again. But I feel ashamed, too.’

Crimson understood how she felt. She held out her arm to Flyte, and the wolf rubbed her muzzle against Crimson’s hand, and then rested her head in Crimson’s lap.

Crimson stared into the night. ‘Something’s come into the Land, Flyte. Something wrong. I have to find out what. I have to make it right again. And we have to get Kevin away from those two people.’

A whining sound of pain came from behind them. The hound that Crimson had hit with the rock limped from the boulder where it had lain. It stopped and looked at the Muddles. No one spoke. The hound looked around, searching.

‘They’ve gone,’ Crimson said to it. ‘The other one came to a few minutes ago and went.’ The creature looked blankly at her, and then crept away, tail between its legs.

‘He didn’t understand you,’ said Calamity.

‘I know,’ said Crimson.

Flyte stood. She leaned forward on her forelegs and stretched, her body arcing in a graceful curve.

‘For now, we’d better get back to Home,’ she barked. ‘And you can tell me how all this started. And what we’re going to do about it.’

‘We?’ asked Crimson.

‘I have a feeling you’re going to need help, whatever’s happening,’ Flyte replied.

‘More than just me?’ said Calamity. ‘Must be bad.’

Flyte’s laugh was the sound of distant summer thunder. ‘From the way Crimson said you saw off that dog, you’re probably more than enough.’

‘What did you do to it, Calamity?’ Crimson asked. ‘It ran out of here making quite a racket.’

‘Men,’ sniffed Calamity. ‘They all have the same weaknesses. So I bit them.’

It was a long walk to Home. Their only light was the pale, cold blue of the moon.

Chapter 8

Three Journeys

T
ouch couldn’t hide a sense of relief when the sun rose, its usual yellow self, the next morning. He ate his breakfast, said goodbye to his parents and headed towards the furnace chamber. Achillia had made it quite clear that, for the next week at least, she expected Touch and Cres to check all gauges, valves and pumps that controlled the power fed to the factories.

As he walked through Forge, Touch spotted old Wilhelm. The engineer was walking ahead of his horse, Sprocket, who pulled a small cart loaded with odd-looking appliances and machines.

Wilhelm spent all his time trying to work out why other engineers’ inventions didn’t work. ‘I’m too old now to invent my own,’ he would explain when asked. ‘New ideas are for the young. Experience and patience are the best old engineers like me can offer. Maybe they can help me figure out why something doesn’t work.’ So he collected ideas others had discarded and tried to make them do what the inventor had intended. Though he sometimes managed to make the invention come alive, he rarely succeeded in getting it to do what it was supposed to do.

Those that never worked, Wilhelm took to a large warehouse. Over time it had become more a museum than a storage facility. Each failed idea was put on display, with a small card that explained its purpose and how it failed to live up to it.

‘If the idea was good enough to act on, then it’s still a good idea,’ Wilhelm would say. ‘It isn’t the idea that’s failed; it’s what we made of it. Maybe one day, another engineer will come along and spot what we did wrong.’

Touch came alongside Wilhelm just as they came to the street. A tram was approaching and Wilhelm, who knew Sprocket was far too old to play chicken with a tram, stopped and waited for it to pass.

‘Morning, Touch,’ said the old engineer. ‘Fine dinner last night, wasn’t it?’

‘Very fine,’ Touch replied courteously. ‘Sprocket looks healthy. He pulls that cart as if it were empty.’

‘Well, he’s getting old, though. In horse years, he’s older than I am. He’s developed a touch of arthritis and he won’t be rushed. Like me, I suppose,’ said Wilhelm. ‘Won’t be rushed at all.’

As the tram approached the crossing, the driver rang his bell. Sprocket shied and whinnied at the sharp, bright sound. He backed away from the tram and reared. Wilhelm stared in surprise. Touch rushed forward and caught Sprocket’s bridle.

‘Easy, Sprocket. Easy, boy,’ cooed Touch. He felt his feet leave the ground as Sprocket threw back his head.

The old engineer came over to him. ‘Now Sprocket, that’s not like you!’ His voice was firm but affectionate. It was well known that Wilhelm was very fond of Sprocket. In fact, another engineer, Frederick, had once sarcastically suggested that if Wilhelm had had a son, he would have wanted it to be just like Sprocket, to which Wilhelm had replied, ‘Better a horse than an ass’, which made all the Myrmidots laugh, for everyone knew that Frederick’s son had repeated Tinker School.

Sprocket calmed at the sound of Wilhelm’s voice and his gentle touch. Within a minute he was his usual docile self, standing patiently by the crossing.

‘I’ve never seen him do that before,’ said Wilhelm. ‘He’s heard that bell a thousand times before and it’s never bothered him. Must be his arthritis. Think I’ll let him rest for a few days.’

‘I hope he’ll be OK,’ said Touch. ‘Well, I’d best be off. See you around.’ And he scooted across the road.

‘Goodbye, Touch. Thanks for your help,’ Wilhelm called after him.

Within a few minutes, Touch was at the door to the furnace room. Before he had grasped the handle he could feel the heat radiating from the door. As he opened it gingerly, warm air rushed out to meet him – warm, but not too hot. Touch paused, took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The room was an eerie blue that made the light thick and heavy. Without realising it, Touch held his breath, but as his eyes adjusted to the colour he could see nothing amiss. He saw the needles on the gauges, pointing just where they should; he heard the gurgle of the steam in the pipes and the quiet hiss of the valves. Everything was normal. He let out his breath and filled his lungs, relieved to find that the air had its familiar stale taste.

Touch chided himself for his foolishness. As he walked around the room his elation returned. He and Cres had really done it. They had tamed the cinerite and its power was now at the command of the engineers of Myrmidia.

He wondered what was keeping Cres. He looked at his watch and saw that she was already fifteen minutes late. Well, there was no point waiting; he picked up a chart from its hook on the wall and started recording the readings on the gauges.

‘Creepy, isn’t it?’

Touch jumped, dropping his pencil. He bent to pick it up, and then looked at Cres standing in the doorway. Her eyes were darting around the chamber.

‘I rather like it,’ said Touch casually. ‘It grows on you, actually. You’re late.’

Cres walked hesitantly into the room.

‘Sorry, Puff went missing and I had to help find her,’ Cres explained. Puff was a small, excitable dog that belonged to Cres’s younger sister, Bess. Cres didn’t like Puff but she did like her sister and when Bess had come to her crying, she had offered to help find the dog. ‘We looked everywhere. I mean, how hard can it be to find a small white dog with a shaved body, a pom-pom for a tail and what looks like a lace pillow stuck round its neck?’

‘Did you find her?’ asked Touch.

‘Eventually. She was hiding behind the sofa. Puff’s a pushover for a treat but nothing could make her come out. Bess is always claiming that Puff has a delicate disposition. Personally, I think she’s just a wimp,’ Cres declared.

Cres’s eyes were getting used to the blue light but her skin tingled as if someone was standing behind her, waiting. ‘Let’s get on with it. It’s definitely creepy in here,’ she said.

‘Who’s the wimp?’ Touch teased. ‘Everything looks fine here. Let’s hurry and finish up and then we can go to the Vault.’

Cres nodded. The sooner she was somewhere else, the better.

≈

Calamity and Flyte watched Crimson slide down the long brass pole of the fire station. She winced as her left arm touched the pole. The spoorhound’s teeth had not gone deep but the wound was still painful and tender. Nonetheless, she landed lightly on her feet and joined her friends.

It had taken them until after midnight to walk back to Home. After Crimson had cleaned and dressed the wound on her arm, they went to their beds, leaving it until morning to decide what to do next. Now morning had come and Crimson had arrived at a decision. And Calamity wasn’t going to be happy.

‘Calamity, I’m taking Flyte with me and going to look for Kevin,’ Crimson told the puppy.

‘OK. Can I have breakfast before we go?’ yelped Calamity.

‘I’m sorry, but you can’t come with us now. I have something else I need you to do,’ Crimson said gently.

Calamity turned away from Crimson, her head in the air. ‘If you go, I go. You need someone to look after you. I’m not arguing,’ she sniffed.

Crimson knelt next to her friend. ‘Calamity, I don’t know what’s going on but I do know that it has something to do with me. Those two yesterday said as much. I have to find out what it is. ‘Reach is Town Leader this week. Will you to tell her what’s happened and where I’ve gone so she can let the others know? Ask her to have someone go to Beadleburg to tell them what’s happened to Kevin. And someone has to go to Forge to talk to the Myrmidots. Somehow, they’re part of this. Please, Calamity.’

Calamity didn’t say a word. She stared at Crimson and shook her head. Crimson lightly scratched behind Calamity’s ears and spoke very softly to her friend.

‘I will need help, Calamity. Once you’ve told everyone, ask Grunge and Slight to meet me at that other camp we found near Leaf’s Meadow. Then find Eugene and come and meet us there.’

Calamity looked at Crimson. She nudged Crimson’s hand with her head. ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ said the puppy with a low growl. ‘But scratch my other ear first.’

It was a harvest rest day and if you want to find Muddles at rest, there is no better place to look than the Common. So a short time later, Calamity trotted up the road towards the centre of Home.

The Common stretches south from the road running through the town. On the other side of the road runs the Meddle River. Seven small stone bridges span the Meddle, and at the end of those bridges are shops, following the slow curve of the river.

The Common is the heart of Home. It is where the Muddles play, talk and rest. The Quad, a large square paved with cobblestones, is next to the road. On one side of the Quad is the Songpost, a gift from the Myrmidots, where the Muddles can listen to their favourite music. On the other side of the Quad is the kiosk, with its bright roof of yellow, blue and red stripes.

Past the Quad, the green grass of the Common goes on and on until it melts into the woods at the far end. Trees dot the Common, providing cool shade for sleepy Muddles, chestnuts to attach to string and leaves of every sort that can be raked into large piles perfect for diving into. There is a crickle pitch, a bandstand and a small pond full of drifting white water lilies nestling in broad green leaves.

Even before she reached the Common, Calamity could hear the lively laughter and chatter of the Muddles. As she approached, she was puzzled to see them all clustered in a circle round the Common. Then the Muddles fell silent. Calamity moved closer to see what was in the centre of the circle.

Two lines of Muddles faced each other across a green patch of the Common. Grunge was in the middle of one line, flanked by three Muddles either side. Directly opposite him, Japes stared at Grunge from the middle of the other line. In one hand, each of the fourteen Muddles held a pogo stick; in the other hand, each clutched a long wooden mallet.

The Muddles gathered round the Common watched as Reach daintily walked in between the two lines. She laid two balls on the ground, one red and one blue, and walked back to the edge of the Common. She looked at Grunge. She looked at Japes. She put a whistle to her lips and blew.

To give the Muddles their due, it was the first time they had used the new pogo sticks. Soon the Common was a confusion of sprawling Muddles, pogo sticks bouncing aloft with no rider, a few Muddles springing up and down in all directions and two Muddles who somehow ended up on the same stick.

The pogo sticks were a recent gift from the Myrmidots. They had been accompanied by a handbook entitled 93 Ways to Enjoy Your Pogo Stick. The one the Muddles decided to try was the one called ‘Pogolo’, in which two teams with mallets have to hit their ball through a series of hoops. Today was their first game.