Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale) (6 page)

Further down the hill, a row of young Muddles were sorting through the freshly washed cherries. Young Muddles have a very keen sense of smell, so are very good at selecting the finest coffee cherries. Kite picked up a deep-red cherry, pushed his flying goggles up on to his head and scrutinised the fruit. He sniffed it, nodded with approval and placed it in a large vat marked ‘Best Beans’. Next to him, his friends Chip and Bristle did the same, their hands darting into the pile of coffee cherries with amazing speed, selecting and testing the coffee.

And Japes and Cape were there, turning the handle of a large drum containing the washed cherries. Inside the drum, hundreds of little teeth shredded the flesh from the fruit, leaving just the green coffee beans. After twenty-three turns of the handle, Japes and Cape stopped, and Sky opened the bottom of the drum to remove the shredded flesh, then pressed a lever to tilt the drum. The beans poured on to a conveyor belt.

The conveyor took the beans along to Shift and Rustle, who transferred them to large wooden barrels for a final soak and clean. When the beans were perfectly clean, they were laid out on fine mesh racks to dry.

Throughout the plantation, the smell of roasting coffee was always present. The green beans, dry and clean, were shovelled on to trays. Whist was one of the Muddles who slid the trays into the huge roasting ovens. She never used a timer. Experience and a perfect sense of smell meant she knew exactly when the beans were roasted just right.

And sitting beside a coffee maker gurgling over a small fire was Patch. As each batch was roasted, the pirate would make a small pot of coffee and take two or three tiny sips to make sure it was the best it could be.

Everyone was so busy with whatever their task was that no one noticed the small bird-shaped cloud that rose from the High Mountains into the blue sky. Every Muddle felt the familiar tingle, like a small charge of electricity, as the plantation filled with shimmering light and the Mix came on them.

Slight was reaching for a cluster of cherries on the tree when he found that he was holding a tray of green beans ready for roasting. Japes was watching her hands go round and round, turning the handle, when her hands became Reach’s hands, holding a large basket of cherries. Fortunately, Cape continued to turn the handle with hands that emerged from a jester’s sleeves. Whist slid a single choice cherry into the oven and Poke popped a piece of twig that Bristle had just extracted from the sorting table into the ‘Best Beans’ barrel. Patch was just about to take a sip of coffee when he found himself sucking a piece of broccoli. All over the plantation, every Muddle did something that someone else had been doing the minute before. Not one Muddle complained; they laughed, they joked, they righted what had gone wrong and they got on with their work.

Of course, the same thing happened all over again a couple hours later when the Mix ended. And the Muddles dealt with it as they always had, whether it lasted ten minutes or ten hours. It was life as usual in Muddlemarsh.

Crimson and Grunge left the woods and joined their friends. The sight of all the Muddles working together gave Crimson a sense of comfort and balance she desperately needed. She didn’t feel at peace. She just felt able to face whatever problems were at hand.

≈

Autumn is not as fickle as spring but it does have its whims. The next day clouds covered the sky. The threat of rain didn’t worry the Muddles, but in Forge it caused two young apprentices some concern.

‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ said Touch, looking at the sky. ‘It will slow us down. And I hate camping in the rain.’

Cres closed the lid of her wagon. ‘I packed raincoats just in case. I think that’s everything,’ she said, with just a little too much uncertainty to suit Touch.

‘Food?’

‘Yup. D’you still have the map?’

‘Of course,’ Touch replied. ‘It’s, ah, in here.’ He opened one of the pockets in his backpack and felt inside. His hand came out empty. ‘Maybe this one.’ He searched another pocket, then another and another. ‘Wait a minute. Didn’t I give it to you, Cres?’

‘Come to think of it, you did, Touch. It’s in my pack.’ Cres produced the copy of the map. ‘See.’

‘We’re going to have to keep our wits about us. This is our chance and we’re going to do it right. Now, let’s hitch the wagons and be on our way,’ Touch declared.

One of the dangers faced by pedestrians in the two towns of Myrmidia was having their toes run over by a wagon trailing behind a bicycle. The wagons, which looked very much like large wooden toolboxes, made pedalling somewhat more difficult, but were rather handy for carrying a variety of necessities, such as tools, shopping bags, repair kits for tyres and, of course, one’s lunch.

Touch and Cres’s wagons were not like the usual wagons. One was slightly longer and wider; the other, though, was very different. Most noticeably, it was an airtight container made from thick, dark-coloured metal rather than wood. Short and squat, it looked solid and heavy.

It was two days since Achillia had caught them in her office. The apprentices had spent all of the previous day making their wagons. The wooden one carried the equipment they thought they would need to break off a piece of the fire rock, plus water, lamps and sleeping bags. In their backpacks, they had food and clothes for three days. The other wagon had taken most of the day to build. They had made it from thick metal, and they were sure it would withstand the heat of the fire rock.

‘You take the wooden one, I’ll take the metal one,’ Touch offered.

‘Cos I’m a girl?’ Cres retorted.

‘No, cos the wooden one is full and the metal one is empty.’

They hitched the wagons to the rear of their bikes and hoisted their backpacks.

‘Well, that’s it,’ said Touch. ‘Let’s get going. We should be able to get there by dark.’

They were about to set off when Beatrice glided around the corner.

‘You’re all ready, then?’ she asked.

Cres would have been happier if they had managed to leave without seeing the Lord Mayor or her deputy again. She felt nervous around the solemn Beatrice. Maybe Achillia had sent Beatrice to tell then she had changed her mind. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was all a trick, the kind adults like to play on young people to teach them a lesson. She waited for Beatrice to tell them they couldn’t go, adding the dreaded words, ‘And let that be a lesson to you.’

Beatrice looked at the two apprentices and then at the squat, metal wagon hitched to Touch’s bike.

‘You had better hope that can hold the blue fire,’ she said flatly. ‘If you are still determined to go, I can’t stop you. Achillia has told you that you face considerable risk. I just came to renind you again. Do not underestimate the blue fire.’

‘We’ll be careful –’ said Touch, but Beatrice cut him off.

‘Don’t interrupt, Touch. Whatever you think – whatever you imagine – comes out of an ignorant head. You will do well to remember that. Now, be on your way. And make sure you report to me when you return.’

Touch and Cres received a rather stiff hug from Beatrice. Without waiting for them to set off, she turned on her heel and walked away. Touch and Cres looked at one another. Touch shrugged and grinned.

‘C’mon, Cres!’ he cried. ‘Let’s go before she changes her mind!’

Beginnings have an enthusiasm all their own. Touch and Cres put their feet to the pedals and pushed, flying through Forge and heading to the High Mountains.

The Land falls from east to west. Beadledom is mountainous, with tall peaks and deep valleys; Muddlemarsh, sandwiched between its neighbours, has gentle hills covered with wooded forest; Myrmidia is a flat land, the hills of Muddlemarsh diminishing to a wide plain that continues to the western sea. Running like an unbroken wall across the northern edge of the Land are the High Mountains.

Touch and Cres raced through the countryside. The clouds gradually dissolved and the day was perfect for cycling. An hour after noon they arrived at the border with Muddlemarsh. Here, Welcome Bridge spans the mighty Salvation River, joining Muddlemarsh and Myrmidia.

They crossed the bridge, the wagons buzzing over the stone. Their stomachs growled and rumbled with hunger. They left the road and found a large tree with branches spread like sheltering arms. In the shade of the tree, Touch and Cres parked their bikes and ate lunch.

Cres took the map from her pack. The road they travelled led south to Home. Since few ever go to Bourne Bridge, there is no road directly north-east from the town. To make the entire journey by road, therefore, they would have to travel double the distance: all the way south to the Crossroads, and then all the way north-east along the road from the Crossroads to Bourne Bridge. So they had decided to leave the road and cut across using one of the old tracks made by Myrmidots and Muddles when they came to this part of the Land.

‘We’ll have to keep an eye open for a track east,’ Cres said between mouthfuls of cheese and pickles. ‘It won’t be much of a track. Hardly anyone comes up.’

Touch opened his pack and took out a bright red apple. ‘We won’t make as good time as we did from Forge to here,’ he said, crunching into it. ‘At least it’s still flat and there aren’t many trees. We’ll be at Bourne Bridge by tonight.’ Touch felt apple juice running down his chin. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

‘I hope they didn’t exaggerate the size of the tunnel into the mountain. I don’t fancy pulling this wagon on foot,’ Cres said.

‘Well, seeing for ourselves is always the best way. And we won’t do that sitting here eating cheese.’

Touch took the last bite of his apple and threw the core on the ground. Cres picked it up, dug a small hole with her hands and buried it. Then she and Touch mounted their bikes and were on their way.

‘What if they don’t want an apple tree there, Cres?’ Touch asked. ‘What if the Muddles had marked that spot for a nice big elm tree? Or a lemon tree? They might have said to themselves, “This is a perfect place for a cherry tree.” And now you’ve upset their planning. You shouldn’t go around planting trees willy-nilly. You take liberties sometimes, Cres. You have to watch that. It could get you in trouble someday.’

‘On the other hand, Touch, maybe someday, after we’re famous, people might point to that tree and say, “That’s the tree Cres planted when she went on the adventure to get the rock of blue fire.”’

‘Touch and Cres, if you don’t mind. And this isn’t an adventure. This is an expedition. We’re doing this for the good of all Myrmidots,’ said Touch solemnly. ‘And to be famous.’

They were so busy talking they nearly missed the small track leading east. It was too narrow to ride two abreast, but at least it was smooth and clear enough for their bikes and wagons.

Cres rode behind Touch. She hadn’t realised how quiet the countryside could be. She was used to the noise of the factories and the hum of machines. Most of all, she was used to talking. Riding in silence behind Touch made her feel lonely. Once or twice she tried to talk but his responses were lost in the open air around them and she finally gave up.

Late in the afternoon, the track emerged on to the road from the Crossroads to Bourne Bridge. They turned north. Neither of them was too sure how far they were from the bridge. The track, of course, wasn’t on the map, and, as is the case with paths planned only by the whim of people travelling them, it had meandered eastward rather than heading there in a straight line. They reckoned that it hadn’t taken them too far south, though, and that they should reach the bridge by nightfall.

They were right, but only by a whisker. The sun had almost disappeared behind the western horizon when they saw Bourne Bridge. Even in the grey twilight, they were astonished at its size. The approach to the bridge was through a steep cutting in the hill which plunged the road into darkness. The bridge itself, however, was lit by the yellow and red of the sun’s last rays. Vast, silent and shining, it loomed like the gateway into some fantastical realm, as if guarding the dark and forbidding fortress of the High Mountains beyond.

The two friends stood in silence astride their bikes until the last ray of light vanished and the bridge became a great dark bulk in front of them.

‘I guess we’ll camp here tonight,’ said Touch. His voice was subdued, as though he feared the bridge was listening.

‘I guess so,’ Cres answered. ‘It’s starting to get chilly. We should get a fire lit.’

It was a simple camp that night, nothing more than a fire and a portable stove. Though the autumn night was chilly, the sky was clear and they slept in the open with the stars keeping watch overhead. The uncertain darkness of Bourne Bridge made their thoughts heavy and they talked little. After one silence too many, they crept into their sleeping bags and closed their eyes, glad of the twinkling sentries above them.

≈

While Touch and Cres settled into their sleeping bags on the hard ground, Crimson snuggled into her soft bed. She was tired but happy. The last two days working on the harvest had refreshed her mind and restored her spirits. The unsettling wordless calling and the memory of that threatening dream had faded. For the second night in a row, Crimson fell asleep with a feeling she’d nearly forgotten. She felt safe.

≈

The next morning the two young apprentices crawled from their sleeping bags and blinked away the dull thoughts of the night. Small balls of cloud drifted in the sky like lazy swans in a blue pond. They looked up the road at Bourne Bridge. No longer did it seem forbidding. The light of the morning sun, full of its early energy, made the bridge shine. From the massive stone arches and thick supporting cables came an aura of benign power. It restored their good spirits and both were anxious to be on their way.

After a quick breakfast, they mounted their bikes and, side by side, set off for the High Mountains. Just at the point where the hard, earthen road gave way to the flagstones of the bridge, Touch turned to Cres.

‘Race you across!’ he cried and, without waiting for a response, he pedalled as hard as he could. The bike hit the small ridge between road and bridge and the wagon lifted into the air and then returned to the ground with a satisfying bump. Touch grinned. He could feel the fresh breeze on his face, he could hear the hum and thump of the wagon on the stones and he could feel Cres pulling up alongside him. He glanced over. Cres was leaning low over her handlebars, her face bright and her hair streaming behind her. She drew level and at once both of them knew that they wanted to reach the other side together. Touch whooped with delight and Cres’s laughter echoed off the great walls of Bourne Bridge.