Blue Fire and Ice (19 page)

There were tales of strange beasts that kept hidden until a traveller’s eyes were closed by weariness and would then sneak in and tear them to pieces as they slept; of ferocious creatures that feared nothing and attacked any they saw. They read of gorges in which the winds rushed through with such force that any who ventured into them, whether traveller or beast, was carried in moments to the far end of the gorge and dashed upon the cliffs. There were tales of birds that lived on the highest peaks and which could carry a full-grown bull in their claws, and could swallow a Muddle in one gulp.

And how, years ago, the people of Home could see fires rage among the highest peaks, fires which burned with blinding brightness for days on end and then disappeared as quickly as they had come. Flames that lit the skies above the Land. Blue flames.

Crimson turned to Grunge. He was staring at her, waiting, a look of excitement in his eyes.

‘Grunge …’ she began.

‘Read the next paragraph, Crimson,’ he urged her.

Crimson read on. Meddle wrote of a group of Muddles, Beadles and Myrmidots who had banded together and travelled into the mountains to discover the source of the fire. Six had gone, two from each of the lands; only one returned, a Beadle named Girth. Girth had been renowned for his strength and was over five and a half feet tall. He was found at the end of Bourne Bridge, thin, grey and near death. His clothes were ragged and it seemed that one side of his jacket and shirt had been burned away.

Poor Girth was never the same after his return and would rarely speak of his journey. Six years after his return, he sat down one day and put on paper the story of the High Mountains. He placed the sheaf of paper in a large, brown envelope and carried it to the library in Beadleburg. Placing it on the librarian’s desk, he left without a word and went home. The next day his lifeless body was found slumped in a chair in his neat little sitting room. In his hand was the only thing he had brought back from his ordeal: a small tin cup that was black inside.

The librarian had absent-mindedly put the envelope in a cabinet, where it remained unopened. Many, many years later, when the memory of the travellers had disappeared from the three lands, a librarian had found the envelope and opened it. Thinking it to be a poorly written story, he was about to throw it away when he suddenly remembered a Muddle who, he had heard, was writing about the old days of the Land. On a large envelope he wrote “Meddle, c/o Home, Muddlemarsh”, gave the envelope to the driver of the post coach and immediately dismissed it from his mind.

Girth had put on paper how he and his companions had travelled high into the mountains, until they came to the wide snowfield between two of the highest peaks. There was Lute, a storyteller and singer from Home, who went hoping to find new stories and adventures she could tell to the Muddles; Loam, from the western edge of Muddlemarsh and who was reputed to be better than any at making the coffee trees flourish. With them were Burn the blacksmith and Em the engineer, both from Myrmidia; and finally Girth’s best friend, Staunch, a Beadle, who only went because he went everywhere with Girth.

They had stood at the edge of the snowfield and looked across its expanse to the peak beyond. The travellers noticed that in parts the snow and ice seemed to be tinged with blue. It must be the sky’s reflection, they decided. What they noticed most, though, was the top of the far peak. It was blue too, but a bright glowing blue.

They had camped for five days at the edge of the snowfield, searching for the source of the blue fire. On the first few days they explored the field and climbed the blue-capped mountain. The blue ice seemed ordinary, though beneath the ice it rippled when the light was just right.

On the fourth morning, when the sun was warmer than usual, they watched as a small patch of ice in the middle of the snowfield melted, exposing the rock beneath. The exposed rock glowed, becoming brighter and brighter until, within seconds, it burst into fearsome blue flames. The flames consumed everything around them, even devouring the rain and snow that came and the white ice surrounding the rock.

On the fifth day, the sun shone more brightly and the air felt less cold. As Girth and his friends cleared away their breakfast things, they heard a great rumbling and the earth under their feet shook. From the peak of the soaring mountain behind them came an avalanche of ice and snow.

The avalanche crashed through the camp, sweeping away Girth’s companions and all the food and supplies. A large chunk of ice hit Girth and flung him clear of the camp and out of the path of the deadly wall of ice and snow.

Even the great wall of snow and ice couldn’t quench the blue flames that had sprung from the earth. Girth watched in fear as the terrible flames devoured all the snow and ice around them.

Another shudder went through the mountains and the blue peak trembled. A great cracking, like the noise of enormous whips, echoed across the mountains as the blue ice shattered. Huge sheets of blue ice slid from the mountain and onto the fiery snowfield below.

The blue ice hit the blue fire and exploded, showering ice and rock into the avalanche. The air hissed and filled with a cloud of blue steam. The injured Girth watched as the blue flames fought the blue ice. A piece of fiery rock, as large as Girth himself, was hit by a chunk of blue ice the size of his hand. The air cracked as the ice touched the rock and the blue fire roared as it fought the blue ice. Shade of blue grew into one another, fingers of flames and vapour mingling. It seemed that the small piece of ice would be no match for the rock but gradually the deeper blue of the fire weakened, then flickered and was gone. The rock itself had melted, leaving a pool of blue water where it had stood.

It had taken Girth and his companions only four days to travel from Bourne Bridge to the snowfield. It took Girth, injured and mourning the death of his friends, more than eight days to make the journey back to Bourne Bridge. As soon as he was across the bridge, he had collapsed, as if he expected the Land to restore him. He wrote little of his journey back, and Meddle could only guess at what the strong Beadle had suffered on his journey down the mountain.

‘I have talked to older folk across the three lands and the story of Girth and his companions is still remembered, though vaguely, by some. Most believe it to be a folk tale, though I have discovered that Girth and his companions did, indeed, exist. The blue fire has not been seen these hundreds of years, and it, too, has faded from our memories. Perhaps it never existed except in legend. Perhaps Girth, confused in the mind by his ordeal and grieving for his friends, entwined the legend with the tragedy to make sense of it. There is no doubt, though, that the High Mountains are a dangerous place and within the high crags and icy peaks there lie many things unknown to us.’

Crimson and Grunge read Meddle’s words at the end of the chapter.

‘It’s not a legend, Grunge. We’ve seen it,’ breathed Crimson.

Sadness took her face. ‘Those poor companions. Poor Girth.’

Grunge nodded. He was silent for a moment and then said, ‘The cup that Girth brought back. It was black inside.’ His brow creased. ‘I think it was black because Girth tried to bring back some of the rock that contained the blue fire. It burned the inside of the cup.’

Crimson mulled over the implications. ‘Do you think he did? Do you think someone found what he had brought back and was using it to set the fires in Beadledom?’

Grunge shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think Girth ever got back with the rock. Look.’ Grunge pointed to a passage in the book. ‘It says his clothes appeared burned. I think it burst into flames before he got here. Maybe before he left the snowfield. No, whoever is setting the fires has found a way to get it out of the mountains.’

Grunge paced back and forth, thinking. Crimson sat, her eyes running over Meddle’s description.

Crimson spoke at last. ‘Even if someone could get it out, how can they use it? As soon as it’s exposed to air, it ignites. Whatever they used to carry it, as soon as it was opened, the rock would ignite. But they don’t want it to ignite right away. They want to be able to get far away before the rock ignites.’

‘Then something must stop it from igniting,’ said Grunge.

They stood side by side, scanning Meddle’s book. ‘I think the answer’s in here,’ said Grunge. They read again of Girth’s journey and the days the travellers spent on the snowfield, until the sun started to melt the ice ...

‘The ice!’ they cried together.

Crimson was jubilant. ‘The ice not only puts the fire out, it stops the rock from igniting! The rock ignited when the ice melted!’ Her face dropped in sudden dismay. ‘Oh, but it also says that the fire consumed not just the rain and the snow but the ice around it. It can’t be the ice that stops it from igniting.’

Grunge spoke softly. ‘It is the ice, Crimson. But not just any ice. It’s the blue ice from the mountain top.’ He became more animated. ‘See, Girth wrote that the whole snowfield was tinged blue. They thought it was the reflection from the sky. It wasn’t. It was the blue ice from the peak mixed with the ice on the snowfield.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That’s why the blue fires haven’t been seen for hundreds of years. The avalanche that took the companions, it must have left enough blue ice mixed with the ice on the snowfield to keep the rock from igniting all these years.’

Grunge became more excited. He was sure they were on the right track. ‘I’ll bet Girth managed to collect a piece of the rock from under the ice. He kept the rock covered with the blue ice to stop it igniting. Maybe he spilled the ice or something and the blue fire erupted.’ Grunge stopped, imagining how Girth must have been terrified when the small cup exploded in flames.

Crimson continued for him. ‘As soon as the rock is exposed to the air, it erupts into fire. Remember at Brindle Island? There must have been a piece of the rock packed in blue ice in that cylinder. When it flew into the air, the ice around it melted or fell away and it erupted. That was the blinding flash as it released its heat. And the water makes it worse. It exploded when it hit the water.’

Crimson rose and clutched Grunge’s hand. ‘And that’s how she’s starting the fires. She leaves a piece of the rock packed in blue ice and waits for the ice to melt and the rock to ignite. We assumed there must be more than one person, but she could do this by herself. The more blue ice she uses, the longer until it melts. She can set it in one place and then get to another before the first one ignites. That’s what was in the cylinder. Rock and blue ice!’

‘I think you’re right,’ said Grunge.

Crimson felt excited, certain that they were beginning to unravel the mystery.

‘That’s why there haven’t been any fires lately,’ Crimson continued. ‘She must have lost the last piece of rock in the river. That’s why Wave saw her heading towards the High Mountains. She was going to get more.’

‘If only we knew more about her,’ said Grunge. ‘Who she is; why she is doing this; where she’s from.’

‘Well, maybe we’ll find something in here.’ Crimson looked at the thick book in front of them and sighed. It would take the rest of the day to look through it.

Crimson and Grunge spent the afternoon’s hours reading Meddle’s book. They skimmed through the words, skipping from one chapter to another, following references back and forth across the chronicle of the Land, playing hopscotch with history. Nothing, though, helped them uncover the motive or identity of the mysterious woman. The yellow sunlight through the windows turned to deep gold and then darkened to amber as the sun fell lower in the sky. At last, the only light in the library came from the small desk lamps where they sat.

Well past dinner time, Crimson turned the last page of the last chapter. ‘Nothing,’ she said, disappointed. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and sat back in her chair.

‘It wasn’t likely we’d find anything to help,’ reasoned Grunge. ‘How could anyone today have anything to do with things that happened hundreds of years ago?’

‘If the answer isn’t in the past,’ she said softly, ‘then we have to concentrate on the present. Who is she? We know she’s not a Muddle or a Beadle. But I can’t believe ...’ Yet Crimson couldn’t think of another possibility. Why would Myrmidots want to harm the Beadles?

Grunge nodded. ‘I can’t believe it, either. We need to talk to the Beadles.’ He looked out the window. ‘It’s getting late.’ Grunge patted his stomach. ‘And I need my dinner! Tomorrow, we’ll go to Beadleburg and see Bligh.’ He sighed. ‘And then we need to make another visit.’

‘Visit?’ asked Crimson. ‘Where to?’

‘Myrmidia,’ said Grunge decisively. ‘I think it’s time for a journey to Myrmidia.’

Chapter 8

B
rian was sceptical. ‘Girth is a myth!’ he scoffed. It was the day after they had read Meddle’s book, and Grunge and Crimson sat in Bligh’s office. They had taken Home’s orange bus to the border and then waited a few minutes until Megan arrived, precisely on time, to take them into Beadleburg in the Beadles’ shiny bus. The friendly young Beadle had been pleased to see them and they chatted all the way to Beadleburg. Megan dropped them off right at the front door of the council offices, where a very serious-looking attendant had met them.