Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits

Table of Contents

 

ALSO BY

Robin McKinley and Peter Dickinson

 

★ ʺMesmerizing stories. . . . The writing is lyrical, and the characterizations are remarkably well developed. . . . Emotions run the gamut—from fear and courage to love and joy. . . . A bountiful collection for fantasy lovers.ʺ

—
Booklist
, starred review

 

★ ʺEnchanting tales . . . a consistently compelling, rhythmic tone. . . . These creative interpretations brim with suspenseful, chilling and wonderfully supernatural scenes.ʺ

—
Publishers Weekly
, starred review

 

ʺTwo generally brilliant writers alternate first-rate tales. . . . The masterfully written stories all feature distinct, richly detailed casts and settings. . . . There's plenty here to excite, enthrall, and move even the pickiest readers.ʺ

—
School Library Journal

 

ʺMcKinley and Dickinson are each justly celebrated for fantasy writing. . . . Readers versed in these writers' work will recognize familiar themes and references; newcomers will find scope for imagination; and all will be richly rewarded.ʺ

—
The Horn Book

For Jessica and Karen

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

Text copyright © 2009 by Robin McKinley and Peter Dickinson. All rights reserved. This

book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam's Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam's Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Published simultaneously in Canada.

eISBN : 978-1-101-13385-9

PETER DICKINSON

 

 

E
llie came into the story very late on. It happened because she was oddly fascinated by the wood. Not that it was very different to look at from any of the several patches of woodland in the enormous grounds of the great country house, some of them really big—forests almost—others no more than a couple of dozen trees. This one was in between, lying in a wide dip in the rolling parkland, on one side of the picnic area, with the house itself in a similar dip on the other side.

Ellie, as usual, finished her lunch long before the others, and rose.

ʺWhere are you off to?ʺ said her mother.

ʺCan I go and have a look at that wood?ʺ

ʺWhat about it?ʺ

Her brothers glanced up from their Game Boys.

ʺIt's a wood,ʺ said Jim. ʺThat's enough for Ellie.ʺ

ʺLots of mouldy old trees,ʺ said Bob.

ʺIt looks interesting,ʺ said Ellie. ʺI want to know what it is. I think there's a notice board by the gate.ʺ

ʺOh, all right,ʺ said her mother. ʺStay in sight. Don't be too long. I'll wait for you here.ʺ

The notice said

 

Ellie made a note of the number.

The gate was locked. There was a solid-looking fence, high as a man, running in either direction. She walked along it to the right, peering into the darkness under the trees. The wood was full of bird-song. Apart from that, she couldn't see anything to make it special for anyone else, but, yes, some of the trees did seem to be really old, and for her that was deeply fascinating. It made her skin crawl to think how long they had stood there while people had come and gone. As the fence curved away she looked back to the picnic area, where Dad and the boys were getting to their feet. Mum was looking towards her. Ellie waved. Mum waved back and settled to her book. That was all right. She'd be happy to sit there reading all afternoon. It was Dad and her brothers who wanted to do stuff. Ellie walked on.

She was watching a jay hunt for grubs along a dead branch when the yobs caught her. She worked out later that they must have seen her coming from some way off and lain in wait for her, and then she'd got it dead right for them, dead wrong for herself. She'd actually stopped at a place where a kink in the line of the fence hid her from the picnic area. The first she knew about them was the jay's wild alarm-cackle, and then a tap on her shoulder.

ʺHi, babe,ʺ said a boy's voice, trying to sound like a man's.

Her heart bounced. She started to turn. A hand clamped across her mouth as she tried to scream. She bit it. The boy cursed, but merely shifted his grip so she couldn't bite then grabbed her right wrist and twisted the arm up behind her back.

ʺGrab her pack, then,ʺ he muttered. ʺWhat you waiting for?ʺ

Another boy—so there were two of them—started pulling the shoulder-strap of her satchel down her left arm. She wrestled with them, sobbing, trying to kick out, trip one of them up somehow.

ʺStop that, you lot! Lay off!ʺ said a different kind of voice. A kid's too, but even and confident. It seemed to come from the other side of the fence, over on her left now after the struggle.

A moment of startled silence. A snarl of curses cut short by the flare of a photoflash, bright in the corner of her eye. Ellie sensed the sudden uncertainty in her captors' grip and wrenched her head free and yelled, gulped breath, and yelled again at the top of her voice.

The hands let go of her. By the time she'd turned to face them, the kids who'd attacked her were scuttling away, holding arms in front of their faces.

Shuddering and sick, she turned again. A boy was watching her from the other side of the fence. He looked younger than she was, somewhere about ten, and concerned for her but extraordinarily calm, as if what had just happened was something he dealt with every day.

ʺYou all right, miss?ʺ he said. ʺYou got someone with you?ʺ

ʺMy . . . my . . .ʺ

An absurd apprehension overcame her that her mother had heard the scream and was now running down the path towards the wood. Please not! It was all right now. If she found out . . . and Dad would be even worse. . . .

She darted away from the fence, far enough to see. No, she was still reading, and didn't even look up. Still trembling, Ellie came back to the fence, noticing now the expensive-looking camera slung round the boy's neck. He was a short but solid-looking kid with steady, dark brown eyes.

ʺWow!ʺ she said. ʺLucky for me you were there! With that, too!ʺ

Her voice came out as a gasping whisper.

ʺReckon so,ʺ he said calmly. ʺPhotographin' that jay you was watching. Wonderful thing, that camera. You goin' to be all right, miss? Keep an eye out for you, shall I, till you're back with your folk?ʺ

ʺOh . . . yes. Yes, I suppose so. I'll be all right. . . . I'm fine. . . . Er . . . how do I come on a nature trail? Is it just schools, or can anybody . . . ?ʺ

ʺBest you call Welly. Tell 'er about you, shall I? Got the number? Give us a name, then?ʺ

ʺMe? I'm Ellie. What's yours?ʺ

ʺDave. Welly and Ellie. She'll like that.ʺ

ʺIs this your wood?ʺ

ʺName runs in the family, manner of speaking. But you call Welly. Good-bye then, miss.ʺ

He nodded to her and turned away.

In a way the strangeness of the encounter was a help, for as she walked slowly back towards the picnic area, Ellie found herself puzzling about it, instead of living over and over again the horror of what had happened. What a funny kid! It wasn't just his calmness and assurance, the way he'd dealt with those louts, or the very odd way he'd put everything he said, or his accent—she wasn't good at accents, but she was pretty sure he was English, only talking the sort of English you might hear a couple of old guys, real country people, talking in a village shop. But underneath all those surface things something stranger yet, far stranger.

Her mother was still reading when she reached the picnic area, and closed her book with obvious reluctance, marking the place with a parking ticket. ʺYour hair's a bit of a mess, darling. Was it as interesting as you hoped?ʺ

ʺThey do nature trails. I'd love to go on one. Can we come again?ʺ

ʺI expect so. The boys are mad on that stupid railway.ʺ