Blue Fire and Ice (18 page)

‘Hey, Grunge! Hey, Crimson!’ two voices called out in unison. Crimson and Grunge saw Leaf and Reach walking across the Common, the young Muddles waving to them.

‘We’re just going to join Wave at the plantation,’ said Reach. ‘He’s tending the new trees. He says they’re some of the best young trees we’ve grown.’ Crimson wasn’t sure whether the young ballerina looked happy because she was glad to be home or because all Muddles loved the harvest season more than any other.

‘There’s not a Muddle nearly as good as Wave in nurturing young coffee trees,’ said Grunge.

‘He’s going to show us what he does, and then he’s taking us to the beach,’ put in Leaf.

‘He says this could be one of the best harvests we’ve had for a long time. We’ll have a wonderful Roasting Day Festival this year,’ added Reach.

‘Tell Wave we need to speak to him, please. Tonight,’ said Grunge. He turned to Crimson. ‘In the meantime, you and I had better start thinking of how to find out about our mysterious woman,’ he said.

‘And the connection between the fires and the old buildings,’ said Crimson. She gave the others a rueful look. ‘I wish I knew my history better.’

‘Why don’t you ask Patch?’ said Leaf. ‘Nobody knows history better than Patch. He’s always telling stories. I’ll bet he knows everything that ever happened in the Land. Or, at least, everything he wished had ever happened.’

Crimson and Grunge exchanged glances and nodded. ‘It’s a start,’ said Grunge. ‘And Patch does know an awful lot of stories.’

Crimson nodded. ‘Right, let’s go talk to Patch.’ She turned at Leaf and Reach. ‘You’d better run off and meet Wave. And don’t forget to tell him we’d like to see him.’

The faces of the young Muddles brightened. ‘OK, Crimson,’ said Reach, ‘we’ll tell him.’

‘Come on,’ urged Leaf, grabbing Reach’s hand. ‘Race you back to the tent.’

Patch’s house was at the north end of Home, at the point where the road curved to the west on its way to Myrmidia. As the road straightened, it dipped, then rose gently. The river still followed the road, gathering speed down the hill, then cutting a small gorge on the far side. At the top of the small hill was a short drive which led to a narrow wooden bridge across the shallow gorge. At the very end of the bridge, at the hill’s highest point, sat Patch’s house.

The house resembled a small pirate galley, stranded atop the hill. The bottom half of the house was a rounded hull, with the bow facing the wooden bridge, which ran straight to the front door like a gangplank. Cut into the bow, the black, sturdy door was shaded by a small awning. The windows were a row of portholes along both sides.

The deck that formed the roof of the house was slightly sloped and had a crow’s nest perched in the middle. From the crow’s nest Patch watched Crimson and Grunge walk across the bridge and knock on the door.

‘Ahoy, me hearties’ Patch yelled. ‘Come aboard and I’ll come down below decks to see ya.’

They entered a small entrance hall. On a coat rack were hung Patch’s spare pirate coats, his second-best pirate hat and three spare pairs of pirate boots. They walked though the entrance hall and into his living room. It was a snug room, its wooden beams and walls giving it a warm, cosy feel. In the corner, past the fireplace, a circular staircase wound its way up to the crow’s nest. They could hear the thump of Patch’s feet as he came down.

‘Youse are welcome!’ he cried with a broad smile on his face. ‘Back from yer adventure fightin’ the blue fire, are ya?’

‘Hello, Patch,’ said Crimson. ‘I hope we aren’t interrupting you?’

‘Not at all,’ the pirate assured them. ‘Just keepin’ me weather eye out fer storms and such, like. From the crow’s nest I can see all the way down to the ocean. Nary a glimpse of a pirate vessel anywheres on the horizon and the weather is fair. Will youse take a cup of coffee with me?’

‘That would be lovely, Patch,’ said Crimson.

‘Sit yerselves down, then, and I’ll get the coffee. It’ll take a few minutes, like. Youse can’t rush good coffee. There, Crimson, sit here. That’s me special chair.’ Patch fluffed the cushions on a large, comfortable armchair with a deep, winged back and ushered Crimson into it before going into the kitchen to make the coffee. There was a matching chair nearby that seemed much less used and cushions that were not so plump.

Patch returned several minutes later carrying his best tray. On the tray were a porcelain coffee pot adorned with sailing ships, three matching porcelain mugs and a plate of home-made peanut butter biscuits. He placed the tray on his coffee table and drew up a small cane chair from the corner. With great precision and care, he poured the coffee, gave it to his visitors and offered the plate of biscuits.

‘These are delicious, Patch,’ said Grunge.

‘Thankee,’ said Patch. ‘’Ave another. Now, what brings youse to me?’

While they drank their coffee and ate their biscuits, Crimson and Grunge related all that had happened in Beadleburg and told him of the mysterious woman. The only thing they left out were the words spoken to Crimson. Patch listened and was on his fourth biscuit by the time they had finished.

‘It’s a shame, like,’ he said, shaking his head and picking crumbs off his trousers, ‘about me legs and Sky’s arms. If that hadn’t happened, Reach would’ve had ’er fer sure. She’s a strong one, that Reach.’

Grunge leaned forward in his chair. ‘We need to find out who that woman might be and where the blue fire comes from, Patch. We hoped you might have some idea. You know all our old stories. It must have something to do with the past. That’s why she burns the old buildings.’

Patch shook his head. ‘Well, I ain’t never heard about a lady like that, nur the blue fire.’ He shook his head. ‘Never.’

Crimson sighed. ‘We’ll try the school next. Maybe we can find something in the history books that they didn’t teach us.’

Patch’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Books? Why didn’t youse say so? If you want ta look at a book, there’s only one ta look at. I only knows made-up tales. Now, who’s ta say that the tales in this book aren’t made up, like, but who’s ta says they ain’t?’

Crimson frowned. ‘What book, Patch?’

‘Didn’t I say?’ said Patch. ‘Why, Meddle’s book, of course.’

He noticed the blank looks on the faces of Grunge and Crimson. ‘Y’ain’t gonna tell me that youse ’ave never heard of The Book of Meddle?’ he said incredulously. ‘Ah, well, p’raps youse haven’t. Weese ain’t so good as weese should be in rememberin’ what weese have.’

Patch poured another coffee and leaned back in his chair. ‘Even meself, I ain’t looked at it for a long time. Maybe I is the only Muddle left who knows weese has it.’ He looked at his visitors. ‘Theys named the river that runs through Home after Meddle, they did. He lived, oh, a long time ago, ’undreds and ’undreds of years ago, like. Ain’t sure what he were. Maybe he were a musician, like you is, Grunge, or a coffee taster, or a teacher. Or maybe he was jist a storyteller. But he wrote down all our old tales and stories, our history, like, or as much of it as he knew. And when he finished the book, theys had it bound in fine leather, brown ’n’ soft, like, with red edges and gold paint on the ends o’ the pages. A fine-lookin’ book it is. And inside theys wrote, “This book is the gift of Meddle, who from this day will flow through our town and memory”’. Patch sighed. ‘Guess theys overestimated our mem’ries.’

‘Where is The Book of Meddle, Patch? Where is it kept?’ asked Crimson.

‘What a question, Crimson!’ cried Patch. ‘In the lib’ry, a-course. Wheres else it’d be?’

Crimson and Grunge looked at each other. Grunge could see the eagerness in his friend’s eyes.

‘Thank you, Patch. To the library, then. Maybe the book will tell us something,’ he said.

‘And thank you for the coffee and biscuits. We’ll let you know if we find anything,’ said Crimson.

‘Youse are both welcome.’ Patch opened the front door. ‘Mind the plank, now.’ He watched Crimson and Grunge cross the bridge and then waved to them. ‘Look fer the book up the stairs and right at the back, like.’ Patch chuckled. ‘It’ll be the one with the most dust on it! And let me know if youse find any good stories ta tell!’

Crimson and Grunge walked back through Home. The library was past the Common, sited between Page’s bookshop and Buckle’s boot and shoe store. The bookshop was one of Grunge’s favourite places but for once he didn’t stop to look at its display of large leather-bound books and colourful paperbacks. They walked up the broad stone stairs of the library, through the portico with its carved pillars, and through the great wooden door that led into the library reading room.

Like any library, Home’s was filled with rows and rows of books of all shapes and sizes. Grunge loved the library and the air within; it had a solemn, musty fragrance that he breathed as if he was breathing words on thousands and thousands of pages.

Past the rows of books and the impressive librarian’s desk, right at the back, was an old staircase that led to the upper floor. Crimson and Grunge climbed the staircase, hearing the squeak of the steps, unused to feet on them. Hardly anyone ever went up to the archives, where old books and manuscripts had been carefully stored. Remembering Patch’s instructions, they walked past the shelves and headed for the back corner. The light from the windows was drawn into the dark books and was soft and dim. The shadows from the shelves spread across the floor and walls, and the friends trod quietly through the faint light. As they neared the corner, the shelves stopped, allowing the light from one window to fall directly in the corner.

There, in a pool of amber sunlight, was a grand mahogany bookcase with glass doors. Wider than Grunge’s outstretched arms, and taller than him by at least a head, the bookcase was divided into two sections, an upper half and a lower half, and was crammed with books.

‘It must be in there,’ Crimson whispered. ‘You look in the top. I’ll take the bottom.’

Slightly swollen with the dew of time, the doors creaked opened. On the shelves were stacks of long tubes. Crimson chose one and drew it from the shelf. It was paper, kept rolled by a piece of green string around its middle. Crimson knew it couldn’t be the book they were searching for, but her curiosity forced her to untie the string and unroll the crackling paper.

Above her, Grunge’s eyes scanned the books. Of various sizes and thickness, most were bound in leather. Many had gilt lettering on the spines, impressed into the soft leather. There were books of red, of brown, of deep green and faded black. A book, larger than the others and bound in plain brown leather, had the title, The Encyclopaedia of the Land. Another, smaller book of rich red leather had stamped on its spine, The Art of Coffee Making. Grunge drew out one heavy book and saw the front bore the words, A Fantastical History of Pirates and their Ships.

He replaced the book and continued scanning the shelves. His eyes stopped on a book with a plain spine. It was a thick book, its leather dark brown. Holding it carefully in his left hand, he looked at the front. In faded gold letters, he could see the title: The Book of Meddle. He opened the front and read the inscription. ‘This book is the gift of Meddle, who from this day will flow through our town and memory.’

Grunge closed the book and turned to speak to Crimson. He saw her sitting on the floor, untied rolls scattered around her and one of the rolled papers spread out in front of her. It was a map of the Land and across the top, in very old writing, were the words “Muddlemarsh, the Western Plains.”

Crimson’s eyes met Grunge’s. ‘They’re maps,’ she said quietly. ‘Maps of Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia, maps of Beadledom and the whole Land!’

Grunge held up the book in his hand. ‘I’ve found it, Crimson. Meddle’s book. It’s really here.’

Crimson nodded and reluctantly rolled up the maps and put them back on the shelves. ‘There’s such a lot here, Grunge. We’ve been left so much. How could we forget all this?’ She sighed as she closed the bookcase doors. ‘Well, let’s go and sit at the reading table over there and see what we can find.’

They sat at the large reading table in the middle of the shelves and switched on the brass reading lights. Grunge put the book in front of Crimson. ‘You should start,’ he said. ‘I’ll look over your shoulder.’

Patch was right. The book had been forgotten and wisps of dust rose from the pages that Crimson turned. The pages had yellowed and in places small brown spots had appeared. Crimson stopped at the page which listed the contents of Meddle’s work and read down the entries.

‘There’s nothing here about fire, or blue fire. I guess we’ll just have to start at the beginning and read it,’ she said.

Grunge peered over her shoulder. ‘Look,’ he said pointing, ‘there’s a chapter on the High Mountains. According to Wave, the woman headed for the High Mountains. Why don’t we start there?’

Crimson studied the entry next to Grunge’s finger. ‘The High Mountains: the Land’s Guardian… 438’ it read.

‘That’s odd,’ mused Crimson. ‘Why “guardian”? Against what? Why would the Land need a guardian?’

She turned the pages of the book and started to read, with Grunge reading over her shoulder.

‘Listen!’ exclaimed Grunge. ‘”Long ago, the High Mountains were known as the Guardian Mountains”,’ he read aloud, pointing down the page. Crimson smiled. Grunge had always read faster than anyone else. ‘”As the years passed, the people of the Land forgot what the name meant. They became used to calling the mountains as they saw them; high, distant and forbidding. No one ever ventured into them and thus they passed into our lives simply as the High Mountains.”’

‘Well, that explains the title of the chapter,’ said Crimson. Grunge didn’t respond, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Let’s see what else it says. And this time … just wait till I catch up with you.’

They read how the High Mountains stretched from west to east in a long, unbroken range across the northern boundaries of the three lands; of the rugged hills that created a formidable barrier that protected the Lands from the north but also kept the people of the three lands from travelling northward, making the sea the only way leave the Land. They learned how people long ago had ventured into the mountains to explore and discover if anything lay beyond and how few ever returned. They read of the trees that grew there, and nowhere else in the Land; of how the mountains caught the fierce storms that came on the north winds and, before they could sweep down into the Land, turned the storms into gentle rains.