Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale) (5 page)

‘But you said that maybe we should have it here to study it,’ Touch protested.

Achillia’s eyebrows arched. ‘Eavesdropping, could get you into more trouble than you bargained for, Touch.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You would be risking your lives. Are you sure you want to do that?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I assume you have a plan. It had better be a good one. Copy the map.’ She pointed to the door to her office. ‘When you’re finished, put the book back on my desk. And turn the light off when you leave.’

Without a further word, Achillia left. Touch and Cres were dumbfounded.

‘She’s letting us go!’ Touch exclaimed.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Cres. ‘I think we’re getting the twisty end again.’ She shook her head. ‘We haven’t thought this through properly, Touch. Risking our lives, she said. And remember what Dot told us about the fire rock . . . Maybe we should just forget about it.’

‘C’mon, Cres. Would Achillia let us go if it was really that dangerous? You know how she is. Everything always sounds serious. We have to go. It’s our one chance.’ Touch took out his pencil and paper. ‘Let’s get this copied. We’ve got work to do.’

≈

A figure stood in the shadows behind a pillar in the great entrance hall, listening to footsteps resounding on the stairs as Achillia came down and went out of the door. A few minutes later and Touch and Cres could be heard leaving the same way. When the sound of the front door closing stopped echoing through the foyer, the figure stepped out from behind the pillar.

‘It’s done,’ it whispered. ‘Now we shall see.’ Cloaked by the shadows, the figure walked into the night.

Chapter 3

Harvest

T
he weather in the Land never gets too hot or too cold, except in the High Mountains, where winter’s snow settles on the peaks and in the valleys. Now autumn held court and the sun shone over Home. Autumn is a special time of year in the Land. The coffee cherries, ready to be harvested, turn the coffee trees warm with their rich brownish-red hue. The air is cool and fresh, nipping at the cheeks of Muddles as they play on the Common or ready the crop for harvest. The days are slightly shorter but the purple air of evening lingers considerately, allowing the Muddles to ready themselves for the cosiness of the hearth. Once the sun goes down, the chill of night makes the warmth of a cup of coffee as welcome as the taste itself. Autumn is the season of satisfaction in Muddlemarsh, the comfort of a year well done.

Grunge whistled a tune as he walked, feeling the joy of being part of such a beautiful day. The sun had just risen and the air was fresh and cool. Dew still sparkled on the grass and the blue of the sky was filtered by dawn’s hazy gauze.

Grunge turned into the driveway of the firehouse. He heard the sharp tapping of claws on the paving stones, then a moment later Calamity came racing towards him. The puppy bounded to Grunge with a yelp of delight. She leapt up, her front paws barely reaching past his broad red belt with silver studs.

‘Hi, Grunge! Hiya! How are you?’ Calamity yapped incessantly. ‘Nice threads!’ She ran a circle round the musician, admiring his baggy trousers that had more pockets than a billiard table, the snappy white shirt with up-turned collar under a black leather jacket with red sleeves and the blue polka-dot bandana round his head. She paused a moment at his bright green trainers, then decided that they were OK, too; all in all, he looked pretty cool. Of course, Calamity knew that clothes didn’t make someone cool. They just had to be cool. Take her. All she wore was a bright red collar and she was way cool. Iced, really.

Grunge bent and patted his friend and scratched behind her ears.

‘I’m pleased to see you, too, Calamity,’ he laughed. ‘Why the fuss? Feeling neglected? Where’s Crimson?’

Calamity was Home’s firehouse puppy. Usually, wherever Calamity was, Crimson wasn’t too far away. Grunge looked around the gleaming fire station. Home’s neat red fire cart, with its water tank and brass fittings, stood ready in the middle of the floor. The fire equipment was in its place and on the racks were the hats, coats and boots for the volumteers who would respond to the call of the fire bell. The floor was swept and the windows were clean. Everything seemed just right.

‘Not sure,’ barked Calamity. ‘She went for a walk a little while ago. I offered to go but she said she wanted to be alone.’

Grunge was worried. He sat on the edge of the fire cart, his elbows on his knees and his face cupped in his hands. Calamity dropped to the floor in front of him, rested her head on her front paws and raising her eyes to look at Grunge. Grunge told Calamity what Crimson had said in Forge the day before.

‘I hope it’s nothing, Calamity,’ he sighed. Whatever it was, he decided, he couldn’t make it better by just sitting around. He hopped from the cart. ‘C’mon, let’s see Sparkle. Maybe she needs feeding or grooming.’

Sparkle pulled Home’s fire cart. Like Calamity, she didn’t really belong to Crimson; she was the fire-station horse. But Crimson looked after her, and Grunge knew that the little grey horse would be missing Crimson, too.

Sparkle shook her head, letting her mane toss in the wind and ran to Grunge. ‘Hello,’ she neighed.

‘Hi, Sparkle,’ said Grunge, stroking her neck. He checked her feedbag and felt her hair. As he’d expected, Crimson hadn’t neglected Sparkle. Her feedbag was half full and her coat was clean and sleek. So he sat on the fence, took out his harmonica and played something Sparkle and Calamity were sure would sound like a song one day. And they waited for Crimson.

≈

The breeze washed the perspiration from Crimson’s cheeks and brow. It burrowed beneath her coat and cooled her skin. It blew the haze from her eyes and calmed the pounding in her chest.

She sat on the wall of a quaint covered bridge, her legs dangling over the water, her arms clutching a pole supporting the roof. It was a small bridge over a small stream that ran from the Meddle River through the coffee plantation and into the sea. Below her feet, the water ran slowly, in no hurry to come to the end of its journey. Fish fed lazily at the bottom or played hide and seek among the reeds near the banks. It was a peaceful place and Crimson had gone there to try to make sense of what had been happening to her.

Yesterday she had told the Myrmidots of her uneasy feelings. Today there was more to tell but Crimson didn’t know how to go about it. She had gone to sleep last night, looking forward to the harvest, and had woken early, before dawn. In the grey light that precedes morning she had seen the curtains on the window and the furniture in the room. Near the door, Calamity was asleep in her little bed.

As Crimson had blinked the sleep from her eyes, the room had blurred, then filled with flames of blue. She had swung her feet out of the bed – and stopped. The floor had become a sea of fire, fingers of blue flames reaching for her toes. The flames grew until they filled the room but it was a fire without heat. Voices came from the flames: Amelia’s, taunting and threatening her, then that horrible shriek as she had died, and unknown voices, mocking and laughing. Eyes floated in the fire, piercing yellow eyes that fixed on Crimson as she huddled on her bed, her arms round her knees.

Then the voices had faded and the eyes melted; the flames had dimmed. Crimson heard the laughter and chatter of her friends, Muddles, Beadles and Myrmidots. One by one, like distant lights being extinguished, the voices that laughed and talked had stopped and the room had burned in silence.

Crimson closed her eyes. She remembered Amelia’s voice at the river, how it called to her without words, and how she had refused to listen. What she had fought that morning was exactly like that. Eyes closed, she willed the flames away. And when she opened her eyes, the blue fire was gone and dawn light was peeking through the curtains into her room. Calamity had yawned and opened her sleepy eyes . . .

Crimson knew it hadn’t just been a dream. It was also part of a story, a tale with a plot she couldn’t follow. And she didn’t have a clue what it meant. She had hoped that the crisp air, the clear stream and the quiet would help her understand her vision, but she was no closer now than she had been when she first awoke.

‘It’s a good day for sitting on a bridge. You can feel the water just by looking at it.’

Despite her dark thoughts, Crimson smiled at the soft growling behind her.

‘Hello, Miniver,’ she said, without turning round. ‘The river is always the same but it’s always changing. I think that’s why I like it so much.’

Miniver raised herself on to her hind legs and rested her front paws on the wall of the bridge. She looked down.

‘Hmmm,’ growled Miniver. ‘Same stream, different water.’

Crimson rested her hand on Miniver’s head. ‘What brings you here?’ she asked.

‘You. I saw you from the hill. You seemed upset. I thought you were going to fall in a few minutes ago.’

Crimson hesitated a moment before replying. ‘It’s not very far to fall and not very deep water. I’m OK, Miniver. Honestly.’

‘You’re not. What’s happened? You seemed fine when we got back from Forge yesterday,’ said Miniver.

‘Just foolishness. I needed to get away by myself for a few minutes.’ Crimson hopped off the wall. ‘But I should get back. Grunge is probably at the firehouse already, waiting for me.’

Miniver looked closely at Crimson and growled. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. But remember: just because it’s your problem doesn’t mean you’re the one with the answer.’

Crimson leaned down and gave Miniver a kiss on her muzzle. ‘Thanks, Miniver. I’ll remember that.’

Miniver stood and watched Crimson as she walked back towards the fire station. When Crimson had disappeared, Miniver turned and ambled back towards the nearby hill, deep in thought.

≈

The sound of the fire cart’s bell ringing made Crimson’s stomach lurch. There had never been a fire in Muddlemarsh and now it seemed that, just when she was needed, she was off feeling sorry for herself. She started to run, the clanging of the bell urging her on.

There was a strange rhythm to the peal that Crimson couldn’t quite grasp. She crossed the field and ran into the station yard. Sparkle was gone. ‘Of course,’ she thought, ‘someone will have hitched her to the cart by now.’ She raced across the empty paddock. Then it came to her. As the realisation dawned, she stopped running and grinned.

When she entered the fire station, Grunge was standing beside the fire cart, pulling the little cord that struck the clanger against the small brass bell. A modest audience of two – Sparkle and Calamity – stood in front of the fire cart as Grunge tried to play a tune he’d been practising for the last few weeks. Grunge gave the cord three quick, short tugs, then a harder, fuller tug. As the last peal filled the firehouse, he turned to his audience and bowed.

‘Bravo!’ neighed Sparkle.

‘Encore!’ barked Calamity.

‘Thank you,’ said Grunge. ‘Having only one note to play makes it easier. I’ll get the beat right one day, too.

Crimson joined in the applause. ‘I’ll have to remember to have the bell tuned for you if you’re going to add it to the collection of instruments you play,’ she joked.

‘Hey, Crimson, there you are!’ Grunge went over to greet her.

‘Hi, Grunge. I thought I’d missed Home’s first fire.’ Crimson gave Calamity a scratch and then patted Sparkle. ‘You’ve groomed Sparkle. Thank you.’

‘I helped, too’ barked Calamity.

‘I’m sure you did, Calamity. Thank you, too.’

‘Are you ready? There’s plenty of work to be done,’ said Grunge.

Crimson nodded. ‘Let’s go. Are you coming, Calamity? Or are you going to stay and keep Sparkle company?’

Calamity tilted her head, looking at the horse out of the corner of her eye. ‘I think I’ll stay. Sparkle’s putting on a bit of weight. She needs someone to chase her and keep her fit,’ yelped the pup.

Sparkle twisted her head and looked down her long body and sturdy haunches. ‘I have big bones, that’s all,’ she said, and chased Calamity out of the firehouse.

≈

The coffee fields were in the hills behind Home. They covered the slopes, hectare after hectare of deep-green trees laden with rust-red coffee cherries. At the bottom of the hills lay the warehouses, drying racks, processing centres and, of course, the enormous red-brick roasting ovens. From a distance, the hills rippled with the movement of Muddles moving among the trees, picking the coffee cherries. Other Muddles were busy sorting and processing the fruit. Every Muddle helped with the harvest and production. Each knew what they were best at and just got on with it.

Slight was picking coffee cherries alongside a young Muddle called Poke. The collar of Poke’s trench coat was turned up and her beret was set at just the right angle for a private detective.

Slight peered at her. ‘You have coffee growing in your right ear, Poke,’ he said.

Poke’s hand went to her ear. She lowered it immediately, feeling a bit foolish for falling for Slight’s joke.

‘Do not,’ she said.

‘Well, I believe you do,’ said Slight, and he put his hand to Poke’s ear and proudly held up a piece of broccoli. ‘Oh,’ he sighed. ‘It was supposed to be coffee.’