Blue Fire and Ice (5 page)

‘You’re a bit dirty, Brian.’ Tek pointed at Brian’s clothes with the small screwdriver she always carried. It had a little clip like a pen and she liked to take it out of her shirt pocket just so she could slide it back again. She thought it looked professional. Tek ran the town’s electronics shop and knew that the most important skill required was to look professional.

‘You’ve had a fall, haven’t you?’ Tek pushed her screwdriver back into her shirt pocket, the way she did when she told her customers what was wrong with their toaster.

All the Beadles who had gathered around Brian spoke at once.

‘That’s mud on his coat.’

‘And on his bottom.’

‘What’s he been sitting in mud for, d’yer think?’

‘Why doesn’t he take off the other shoe? Then he’d be straighter.’

‘Oh dear, his toenails need cutting,’ said Trimsy, the beautician.

In order to understand just how difficult all this was for Brian, you have to know not just how Beadles sounded, but how they looked.

Beadles look just like anyone else but rounder. They are not very tall (there are stories of a Beadle who lived many years ago and who was said to be over five foot six inches tall, though sensible Beadles believe no such thing), but what they lack in height, they make up for with the size of their waist. They dress their portly bodies in simple, dull clothes, mostly dark green, black or charcoal grey. In fact, a queue of Beadles very much resembles a cucumber. It is often wished by their neighbours, the Muddles, that the sun would rise in the west instead of the east, for by rising in the east it has to pass over Beadledom first and by the time it gets to Muddlemarsh it is quite worn out from trying to make Beadledom a look a little brighter.

It surprises people who have just met a Beadle how fast they talk. They are able to maintain a good rate of knots when they speak by keeping their sentences short and maintaining strict limits on how many different words they use. Over a hundred years ago, one of Beadledom’s great teachers, Professor Verity, declared that ‘Synonym is just another word for confusion. Everything only has one meaning and there should be only one word for each thing.’ The following year he published a new dictionary in which every word had just one definition and every thing had just one word to describe it. It is still used in their schools today.

At the best of times, Beadles do not like to stand out. To be the centre of attention and have all the other Beadles pointing and talking to you at the same time is an unpleasant experience. For Brian, who was tired, muddy and wearing only one shoe, it was particularly unpleasant. He just wanted to go home, have a bath, put on his slippers and fall asleep in his favourite armchair.

‘What’s happening here? What’s all the fuss?’ A stern voice at the back of the crowd rose above the chatter. ‘Let me through,’ the voice demanded. The other Beadles made way, and the body that belonged to the voice pushed through to the front. He saw Brian, stopped and glared.

As High Councillor of Beadledom, Bligh was used to glaring. It was what he did best, apart from shaking hands and kissing babies. His eyes went from the top of Brian’s untidy hair right down to his toenails (which, to give Trimsy her due, were in need of attention). He stared at Brian’s shoeless foot, then slowly raised his eyes until they were staring straight into Brian’s.

Brian’s heart sank. He had hoped to be able to get cleaned, rested and changed before he had to explain his failure. Bligh was bound to make him explain right here, in front of all the other townsfolk. He looked back at Bligh.

As glares go, this was one of Bligh’s better ones. His eyebrows came together in two dark arches, like a pair of eagle wings. His eyelids drew closer together, leaving only the pinpoints of his pupils visible. The dark points fixed on Brian.

‘You’re muddy,’ said Bligh. ‘And you are wearing only one shoe.’

Brian nodded.

‘Did you see the Muddles?’

Brian nodded.

‘Did you talk to them?’

Brian nodded.

‘Well, is everything fixed?’

Brian shook his head. ‘No,’ he admitted in a low voice.

‘What!’ Bligh blustered. His eyebrows drew closer together, poised to strike. ‘I think you’d better explain yourself, Brian. You were sent on a very important mission.’

Brian hung his head. ‘I know,’ he said.

Brian could tell from the way the other Beadles were muttering that things weren’t going well for him. At that moment, he felt even more sorry for himself than he had when he watched the magpie fly away with his shoe. He took a deep breath. ‘I hate Muddles,’ he thought to himself. And then began to tell the others what sort of day he had had.

By the time Brian had finished his tale, most of Beadleburg were gathered round. For a few moments, no one spoke. Then Bligh cleared his throat.

‘Ahem,’ he said. ‘Ahem.’ Frowning, he looked at the Beadles. ‘I think we would agree that Brian has failed us. He has had an ordeal but he was foolish to be involved with even one Muddle, let alone two, without proper precautions.’

Everyone looked at Brian the way that parents look at their children when they have scraped their knees running after being told to walk.

‘This is serious, Brian. Something will have to be done.’

Brian hung his head. He was sure that Bligh meant that something would have to be done about him.

The Beadles looked at Bligh, who looked at Brian, who looked at his feet.

‘Megan!’ Bligh shouted suddenly. ‘Megan! Where’s Megan?’

Megan stepped down from the bus. She gave Brian a little smile and for some reason Brian found that he didn’t feel so miserable.

‘Yes, Bligh?’ said Megan. ‘I know we’re behind schedule, but -’

‘You’ll have to forget your schedule, Megan, I’m sorry,’ declared Bligh.

Megan look bewildered for a moment. ‘But the bus -’ she protested.

‘Not this afternoon, Megan. Nor tomorrow,’ Bligh said firmly. ‘Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock you will drive Brian to Home.’

Megan stared at Bligh in horror. ‘To Home!’ she exclaimed. ‘All the way?’

‘All the way,’ he confirmed. Megan started to protest again but Bligh held up his hand and continued speaking.

‘Now, Megan, I know that the town agreed that our bus would never travel on the roads of Muddlemarsh. I know that the roads of Muddlemarsh are not good enough for a bus as fine as ours. But this is an emergency, Megan. Brian must go back and get help from the Muddles first thing tomorrow, and you must take him. You will take him to Home and then you will bring him back.’ Bligh looked at the Beadles gathered around. ‘I’m sure that everyone would agree that we must do this.’

All the Beadles nodded and talked at once (though very politely). It was clear they agreed with Bligh. It was equally clear that Megan was very unhappy.

Tek stepped forward. ‘I know it’s hard, Megan,’ she said. ‘But I’ll come and help you check it over when you get back and we’ll give it a good wash.’

Isidora, who somehow managed to scowl even when she smiling, said kindly, ‘It’s a good bus, Megan. It can stand one trip, even on those bumpy Muddle roads.’

Other Beadles comforted Megan, saying such nice things about the bus that Megan almost felt like crying. They offered to help clean the bus when it returned and to check the tyres, polish the rims, fill the little container for washing the windscreen and generally make sure that it suffered no ill effects from its ordeal.

This may seem to you to be a bit over the top for a bus, but you have to understand that Beadles are very, very proud and fond of their bus. And of Megan, for that matter.

‘OK, eight o’clock.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’ll pick you up, Brian.’

‘Thank you, Megan,’ said Bligh. He put the tips of his fingers on his chin and sighed. ‘I just hope there isn’t a fire tonight. Poor Bell is exhausted and needs to sleep. We shall all have to be extra alert.’ He shook his head. ‘I was hoping that we would have had the fire officer from Home with us by now,’ he continued. ‘We shall just have to stand in for Bell if there is a fire tonight. Tomorrow, we shall have help. You must convince them, Brian. Don’t fail us again.’ Bligh looked at Brian but instead of scolding him, his eyes lost their hardness and he said quietly, ‘Please.’

At that moment, Brian would have turned round and walked straight back to Muddlemarsh, wearing just one shoe, if Bligh had asked. But Bligh didn’t ask Brian to do any such thing. Rather, he resumed his familiar bossy voice and said, ‘Everyone to their homes now. Those who are on patrol tonight should get ready.’

Bligh rested his hand on Brian’s shoulder. ‘You had best get home and get some sleep.’

Brian nodded and limped home alone. He felt too tired to eat. He just wanted a bath and some sleep. While he filled the bath, he put away his shoe, placing it neatly by itself in its space on the shoe rack. After his bath, he dressed for bed and fell asleep. He slept soundly until the morning, and dreamed of nothing except a small white goat with a black face standing in his wardrobe, eating his clothes.

*

Gwyneth’s eyes opened. She lay still, staring at the dark ceiling above her. Something had woken her, a noise out of place. She knew every creak and groan of the old mill. All her life she had lived with them until they seemed as natural as the leaves rustling in the wind, or the constant murmur of the stream that ran beside the mill. And the noise that roused her from her sleep was not one she had heard before.

The noise came to her again. It drifted up through the wooden walls and floors of the mill. Here, in the eastern hills of Beadledom, the silence of the night was deep and the odd noise disturbed the quiet. Gwyneth cocked her head, trying to identify the sound. It was a low crackling, like someone treading on green twigs. ‘Or the noise kindling makes when a match is set to it,’ she thought.

Gwyneth threw back her blanket and leapt from the bed just as the first smell of smoke reached her. She grabbed her dressing gown and thrust her feet into her slippers. She was out the door before the dressing gown had even settled on her shoulders.

‘Not fire,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Not the fire!’ A hard, tight knot of fear coiled in her stomach. ‘The storehouse is full. If it catches alight, everything is lost!’

Her feet barely touched the steps as she flew down the stairs. Fear continued to flood through her. The wool mill had been her home since she was born. She had played her childhood games on the wooden floor while the mill workers bustled around her. On countless summer days she had paddled her feet in the tumbling stream that turned the mill’s enormous wheel. She had learned to spin and weave and she could tell by the merest touch which fleece would make the finest cloth. And when her parents died, she had inherited the mill, though she had felt that it had always belonged to her.

Gwyneth loved the mill more than anything in the world. She loved its timbers and its machines, its people and the fabrics they made. She loved her little home above the spinning room where the coarse wool was teased and spun to make that fine, soft fabric. And now, fire was trying to take it from her. One of the oldest buildings in Beadledom. Only Worsted’s Mill was known to be older. And the blue fire had already claimed that.

Gwyneth raced across the floor of the spinning room. Smoke drifted from the doors to her right. Her heart beat faster. That was the storeroom. It was full, Gwyneth having taken on the work that Worsted’s Mill could no longer do. If the storeroom was ablaze everything would be lost. There would be no new clothing or blankets in Beadleburg when the winter came.

Before Gwyneth could reach the main doors, there was the dull roar of a small explosion. The building shuddered and groaned. A sheet of blue flame enveloped the wall to her left. She staggered and almost fell. At the same time, thick smoke poured between the cracks in the walls and the doors to her right. It descended on her like a living shroud, filling her nose and mouth. The smoke felt wet and oily and her mouth was filled with its bitter taste.

Gwyneth gagged. She couldn’t breathe and she felt the smoke fill her lungs. She tried desperately to move but her legs buckled and she slumped to the floor. A small current of clean air, driven in under the doors, swirled across the floor under the smoke and she breathed in deep gulps, trying to cleanse her lungs of the heavy smoke. Her respite lasted only a few seconds before the smoke beat back the fragile stream of air and swept into her once again.

Flames ate the beams and rafters above her. Gwyneth could feel fiery cinders showering her. She couldn’t think or move. Gradually, the world grew darker and even the fiery pinpricks from the burning cinders ceased to hurt. Gwyneth fell into blackness.

*

‘Gwyneth! Gwyneth!’ Tom spoke her name sharply, fear making his voice sound almost angry. He shook the figure lying still on the ground in front of him. ‘Gwyneth!’ he yelled again. ‘Please, open your eyes!’

‘Puff into her mouth again, Tom,’ said Pim anxiously. He peered over Tom’s back, watching his friend bathe Gwyneth’s face with a wet cloth. ‘Maybe there’s still smoke in her.’

Tom’s face bent once again towards Gwyneth’s. He saw his tears drop and splash gently on Gwyneth’s face. ‘It can’t be too late!’ a small voice inside him cried. ‘She must wake up!’

Tom had known Gwyneth all his life. His father had been the foreman at the mill and there had been a time when everyone, even Gwyneth and Tom, believed that one day they would marry. As the years passed, however, something always came up and certainty gave them a fatal patience. Eventually, Tom became Gwyneth’s foreman when she inherited the mill and somehow they settled into their roles and thoughts of marriage faded and then disappeared.

A tear fell on Gwyneth’s cheek, washing away a small circle of the ash and grime. Gwyneth’s eyes fluttered, then opened. She saw Tom’s face close to hers and she smiled. She had no idea where she was or why Tom was leaning over her, his eyes filled with tears, but it was Tom, and she smiled.

She tried to speak but pain ripped through her chest and she coughed and retched.

‘Easy, Gwynny,’ said Tom gently. Slowly and carefully, he lifted her until she sat resting against him. ‘Don’t try and talk. Hush, Gwynny.’