Blue Fire and Ice (20 page)

‘And who do you wish to see?’ the attendant asked, his pen hovering over a large book in which he wrote the names of all visitors.

‘Bligh,’ said Crimson.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ the attendant asked.

‘No, we don’t,’ admitted Grunge, ‘but it is very important.’

The attendant looked at them over the top of his glasses, ‘People think that important things are more important than ordinary things,’ he said with great disapproval. ‘But if we stopped doing the ordinary things just to attend to the important things, then all the ordinary things we didn’t do while we did the important things would themselves turn into important things and we’d have to attend to them right away, which would mean that we’d be back doing the ordinary things and not doing the important things. It isn’t,’ he continued with great solemnity, ‘a matter of importance. It’s a matter of appointments. If you have an appointment we know it must be important, whether it is ordinary or important. Understand?’

Neither Crimson nor Grunge did understand, but they nodded anyway.

‘It is rather urgent,’ said Grunge apologetically.

The attendant looked even further over the rim of his glasses, right down to the tip of his nose, and stared at Grunge. ‘Rather urgent,’ he asked, ‘or very urgent?’

‘Very,’ said Crimson, after just a little pause.

‘You should have said so.’ The attendant looked at the appointment book. ‘You’re lucky. Very lucky,’ he said, emphasising the word “very”. ‘Bligh has a free appointment time for Very Urgent Matters.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘In five minutes,’ he declared, ‘as soon as he has finished his morning coffee.’

The attendant looked at the visitors’ book and then at the Muddles. They looked at the visitors’ book and then at the attendant.

‘Names?’ said the attendant, with great exasperation.

‘You know us,’ said Grunge politely. ‘We’ve been here several times before.’

The attendant gave a deep sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter whether I know you or not,’ he said. ‘It is not who I think you are that matters. It is who you say you are that matters. Names?’

So, five minutes later, they found themselves in Bligh’s office. Bligh sent for Brian to join them, having added Muddle Go-between as one of the official duties of a Factotum, and that the Muddle Go-between must always be present at meetings with Muddles.

Crimson and Grunge told the Beadles what had happened the previous day, (Crimson noticed that Brian twitched when they mentioned Patch), and about The Book of Meddle and Girth and his companions, and the blue ice. Brian was adamant that Girth was a figure from an old folk tale.

‘No one believes that old tale about a tall Beadle,’ Brian said firmly. ‘And I’ve never heard of a story about travellers from the lands going to the High Mountains.’

Sometimes when you know an awful lot, it’s easy to assume that you know everything, and Brian did know an awful lot about Beadledom. He fell straight into the pit of assumption.

Grunge tried to be polite and not argue with Brian. ‘It is possible that it’s just an old tale,’ he agreed. ‘But I don’t think so. It all fits too well.’ He looked at Brian and spoke almost apologetically. ‘I’m not surprised you haven’t heard the story. Girth’s tale was passed to

the Muddles.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether Girth is a myth or not,’ said Bligh to his guests. ‘The rest still makes sense. And I think we can draw only one conclusion about where the woman comes from.’ He looked at Brian. ‘Grunge is right. We have to go to Myrmidia.’

‘Now?’ said Brian.

Bligh nodded. ‘Yes. The sooner the better. We’ve not had fires for two nights in a row. We can safely assume that either she has given up, and gone to the High Mountains for more of the fire stone, or she has returned to Myrmidia.’ He checked his watch. ‘It is nearly one o’clock. If we leave within the hour, we will be in Forge in time for a late dinner. I will send a message to Achillia, my friend the Lord Mayor, and make arrangements for us to see her when we arrive in Myrmidia.’

Forge sat in the heart of Myrmidia, about 250 kilometres from Beadleburg. They could take Beadleburg’s bus as far as the border with Muddlemarsh, then catch the Muddles’ afternoon bus to Myrmidia. Once at the Myrmidian border, they would have to leave the bus and board the electrified tram that ran from the border to Forge.

At 1.45 precisely, Megan put the bus into gear, pulled away from the council offices and headed west. On the bus were the usual assortment of passengers; Beadles, going to farms and houses that lay between Beadleburg and Muddlemarsh. In the two rows of seats immediately behind Megan sat Bligh and Brian and Crimson and Grunge. A large picnic basket had been stowed in the luggage rack above their heads. They would be travelling for the best part of six hours, and Brian wasn’t taking any chances.

Right on time, Megan slowed the bus and pulled over to the side of the road. Just ahead lay the border with Muddlemarsh. Megan pulled the lever to open the door and her passengers alighted and bade Megan goodbye.

The four walked past the border tree that marked where one land ended and the other began. The tall, straight elm sat with half its roots stretching into the soil of Beadledom and the other half deep in Muddlemarsh. Just past the tree was the bus stop. Brian looked at his watch. 2.47. The bus was due at 2.52.

At 2.53, Brian peered up the road in the direction in which the bus would come. The road was empty. At 2.56, Brian tutted. He was uncomfortably aware that Bligh was beginning to fidget. ‘Muddles,’ scoffed Brian silently. ‘Nothing is what it should be. Nothing is reliable.’

At 2.58, a small orange bus rumbled towards them. As the bus neared, they could see the smiling face of the driver. Shift waved as he pulled the bus to the side of the road, then made a neat U-turn and stopped in front of the waiting passengers. He opened the door.

‘Passengers!’ he cried cheerily. ‘Welcome aboard!’

The four passengers entered the empty bus. Brian stood next to Shift. ‘How much is the fare to Myrmidia?’ he asked as politely as he could.

Shift stared at Brian, confused. He hadn’t expected this. No one had ever paid to ride in his bus. He turned to Grunge for help. ‘Hey, bro, am I supposed to charge people to ride in the bus?’

‘No, Shift. It’s free.’ Grunge grinned at Brian. ‘It’s OK, there’s

no fare.’

Shift was content and happy. ‘That’s cool, then. I’d hate to think I’d forgotten something.’

Bligh was sitting next to the window, opposite Grunge and Crimson. Brian sat in the aisle seat next to him. Ripples of puzzlement wrinkled his forehead.

‘How does the bus make any money, then?’ he finally asked Grunge.

‘It doesn’t,’ replied Grunge. ‘Should it?’

Brian opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. It was pointless. Grunge would only have an explanation that Brian wouldn’t understand. He looked past Bligh out of the window and watched the countryside roll by. The bus shuddered on the uneven road and occasionally bounced from side to side. Brian felt himself lean against Bligh as the bus turned a corner and then he felt the shudder deepen as the bus crossed a familiar little bridge. As the bridge fell away behind them, Brian started. He was pretty certain that somewhere to the left he had heard the taunting bleat of a white goat with a black face.

It was a short ride to Home where the bus stopped long enough for Crimson and Grunge to pack a small bag and to tell the others where they were going. They had wanted to speak to Wave, but the Town Leader was still tending the new coffee trees at the plantation. They left with Bright’s promise to let Wave know what it was they had planned.

During the long bus journey to Myrmidia, Crimson, Grunge, Brian and Bligh went over everything that happened so far. They particularly tried to find a reason why any Myrmidot would want to harm the Beadles, or anyone at all from the Land. Try as they might, it didn’t make sense. At last, having exhausted all the possible reasons that came to mind, they fell into silence and watched the fields and trees slip past the bus windows.

The sun was nearly at the horizon when Brian consulted his watch once again.

‘We should make the six o’clock tram,’ he declared out loud.

‘Oh, you’ll make it all right,’ said Shift. ‘We only lost ten minutes in Home and we make it every day with time to spare.’ His face scrunched with thought. ‘Well, nearly every day. I mean, on those days when we don’t have a passenger who needs to go somewhere else first. Then we almost always miss it.’

Bligh and Brian exchanged glances. Their faces had the same expression that appears on the faces of parents who can’t wait for their children to grow up and be sensible.

On this particular afternoon, there were no detours and they arrived at the border of Myrmidia with four minutes to spare.

‘Thank you, Shift,’ said Grunge. ‘We’ll try and be here tomorrow for the midday bus back.’ The midday bus actually left at 11.20, but for Muddles that was close enough to deserve the name.

There was no tree to mark the border between Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia. Instead, there was a small neon sign flashing the words “Welcome to Myrmidia” and underneath the welcome, the words “You think it, we’ll make it”. Right beneath that, in very small letters, it read “Myrmidia Patent Number 007HWY61LP33221B”.

They crossed into Myrmidia. The tram depot was right on the border, a small concrete building painted olive green. At the entrance was a small turnstile with a sign next to it that read:

Fares

Zone 1: 2 argents 50 aurums

Zone 2: 3 argents 50 aurums

Zone 3: 5 argents 25 aurums

Zones

Zone 1: Western sea to Muddlemarsh

Zone 2: No Zone 2 (but you never know)

Zone 3: No Zone 3 (will come after Zone 2)

And finally, at the bottom of the sign:

Please use correct money. If you do not have correct money, or any money at all, press the blue button to enter and travel free.

Since Muddles hardly ever carry money, Crimson pressed the blue button. The turnstile clicked and the little gate swung open to allow Crimson onto the platform. Above her, a small sign flashed “Thank you”. Grunge pressed the blue button and joined Crimson. “Thank you” flashed the sign again. Bligh searched his pockets. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a large silver coin.

‘Ten argents,’ he muttered and replaced the coin in his pocket. He pressed the blue button and entered onto the platform. “Thank you” flashed the sign for the third time.

Brian reached inside his coat and drew out a large purse. From the purse, he took a small coin which he placed on the turnstile next to the coin slot. He picked out another, examined it closely, and placed it on the first. Coin after coin he took from the purse and placed each on the pile on the turnstile until the pile threatened to topple.

‘Two-fifty,’ Brian said to himself. He replaced the purse inside his coat and then, one by one, dropped the coins into the slot. As each coin disappeared into the slot, the turnstile made a loud clicking noise, like a gear turning a single notch. Brian made a softer noise, counting each coin in turn.

‘… two-ten, two-twenty, two-thirty, two-forty, two-fifty,’ he counted as the last coin disappeared. There was a pause. ‘Quite finished?’ flashed the sign. Brian nodded. The turnstile gave one last click and clunk and Brian pushed through and walked onto the platform. ‘Thank you’ flashed the sign.

The tram came rattling along the rail and screeched to a halt at the platform. Now, it has to be admitted that Myrmidia’s tram is a wonderful vehicle. Painted green, with dull yellow trim, it is large and rectangular, with doors at the front and the back and running boards extending from front to rear. Between the doors are open windows so that passengers can lean their faces on their hands and dream of things while the land whizzes past. Inside, for about three-quarters of the tram, are pairs of seats on either side, and for the last quarter there are two long bench seats. If you wear a hat you quickly learn never to sit on the bench seats, with your back to the window, for invariably you find the wind tossing your hat across the tram to the passengers on the bench opposite.

(Being as inventive and practical as they are, one enterprising Myrmidot produced a range of hats called Tram Hats. They were all identical and would stretch or shrink to fit the head of the wearer, so that you never had to worry about losing your hat, but just waited for the next one blown from the head of another passenger to land in your lap. Unfortunately, the idea only worked if everybody wore a Tram Hat and the moderate enthusiasm of the first season was followed by waning interest over the next two seasons and then the Tram Hat disappeared from the heads of even the most practical Myrmidots.)

It may interest you to know that the trams of Myrmidia run on three rails, the outer pair for the metal wheel and the inner rail for the electricity which provides its power. They have a dynamic bifurcated catalytic soporific-injected motor which produces more horsepower than anyone has ever counted or which is at all useful, but it gives the more technical Myrmidots a great deal to talk about when they are relaxing over an ale after work. Or perhaps it doesn’t interest you at all and we should skip the technical details.

What was of considerable interest to our four passengers was that the tram has a top speed twice that of Beadledom’s highly polished bus. It scoots down the track between the border and Forge at a hat-tossing rate of 100 kph, covering the 130-kilometre journey in … well, you’ve probably already figured out how long it takes. That was very important for our travellers, none of whom had had their dinner. At that rate they would make it to Forge in time to eat before they had to see the Lord Mayor.

So it was that at 7.27 in the evening the four hungry travellers entered Bellow’s tavern, where they ordered a hearty meal of fat brown sausages and sautéed cabbage, covered in thick onion gravy.

Bligh made short work of his dinner. Placing his knife and fork neatly on his empty plate as his parents had taught him, he sat back in his chair and surveyed the busy restaurant. Most of the Myrmidots had finished their meal by the time the travellers entered, and were chatting and laughing, drinking mugs of frothy ale, or cups of steaming coffee. Myrmidots are very industrious and when they are at work they seldom smile or relax. Once they finish for the day, however, they unbutton their collars and undo their shirt cuffs and entertain each other with tales of inventions that didn’t work or with stories of the most fantastic feats of engineering they have ever done, much the same as people who like to fish.