The Fire Chronicle (22 page)

They finished their meal in silence and resumed the descent. Thirty minutes later, they reached the canopy of trees. From above, Michael had expected to find a tropical jungle, but the valley floor was covered by a forest of enormous redwoods. He recognized the trees from photos and movies, but these were taller and larger than any he had ever seen. Indeed, the valley floor turned out to be much lower than they had thought, for even after reaching the canopy, they kept climbing down and down and down.

“Can you believe,” Emma said when they were finally at the bottom, “we have to go back up that?”

The light had now begun to fade, and it was darker still under the canopy.

“I know you’re tired,” Gabriel said. “But we should push on. I would like to camp closer to the volcano so we can arrive there tomorrow morning.”

Michael nodded, Emma groaned, and they kept walking, no one mentioning that the creature’s cry had come from the direction of the volcano. Michael felt as if they were walking through a forest of sleeping giants. Even Gabriel stared up in awe at the massive red-brown trunks. But the going was slow, as the forest floor was covered in a thick bed of ferns, and Gabriel had to use his falchion to bushwhack a path.

Little else moved in the forest. The birds kept to the canopy, and the only other wildlife were shiny black beetles that scuttled
up the sides of the great trees and, with a furious whirring and clicking, abruptly took flight, weaving away between the trunks. The beetles were the size of turtles, and after Michael was struck in the back of the head and literally knocked off his feet, the children learned to duck when they heard one coming.

Still, Michael thought, fingering the sore spot behind his ear, if this is all there is, birds and beetles, why do I feel like we’re being watched?

As they hiked, the sound of rushing water grew louder, and eventually they came to a river, perhaps forty yards across, running clear and swift down the center of the canyon. They were hot from the walk, and Gabriel let them lie on their stomachs and dip their faces in the stream. The water was ice-cold, and they drank until their teeth ached.

Refreshed, the small party continued on, following the bank of the river until it was too dark to see and both children were dragging their feet and Emma had said for the fifteenth time, “This looks like a good place to stop.” Gabriel made camp on a large rock that gave views both upstream and downstream, and he brought out food—more bread, sausage, and dried fruit—and said they would not risk a fire. Michael wondered if Gabriel also felt they were being watched; if the man did, he said nothing. After they had eaten, Gabriel cut fronds from nearby ferns and made a thick, soft bed on the rock, and Emma lay down and was asleep in a moment.

“Sleep,” Gabriel told Michael. “I’ll stand watch.”

Michael fully intended to tell Gabriel to wake him in a few hours and let him stand his turn, but exhausted and aching in
every part of his body, and lulled by the murmur of the river, Michael lay down beside his sister and slept.

Michael dreamed.

Again, he was in the long, dark tunnel, walking toward the red glow.

Again, he stood before the lake of fire, staring into the surface as his eyes burned and the heat stifled his breath.

He knew the
Chronicle
was somewhere nearby. But where?

And then, strangely, he heard music. It seemed to be all around him. The heat lessened. He could breathe without pain. A weight lifted from his shoulders. He felt as light as air, as if he could float up into the sky and sail away.…

A hand on his shoulder jostled him awake.

It was still dark; Gabriel was leaning over him, a finger to his lips telling Michael to remain silent. There was music drifting out of the forest, and Michael recognized it as the music from his dream. He sat up; indeed, he might have leapt up had Gabriel’s hand not rested on his shoulder.

“I heard—”

“Yes, it began a minute ago. I am going to investigate. Stay with your sister.” Gabriel rose, then paused. “You will stay with her.”

There was a question in his voice.

“Of course, yes, I’ll stay with her.”

The man stared at him. Michael couldn’t help himself.

“Just the music … it’s so … beautiful.”

“Try not to listen.”

“Okay.”

Gabriel kept staring at him. Michael realized he was humming. He stopped.

Gabriel said, “I will be back soon.” And, unsheathing his falchion, he slipped noiselessly into the trees.

Michael glanced at his sister. Emma was smiling in her sleep. Michael had never seen Emma smile in her sleep. Usually, she slept with her hands clenched into fists as if she were fighting battles in her dreams. He wondered if she could hear the music. It really was so beautiful—

No! Gabriel had told him not to listen!

Taking off his glasses, Michael lay down on the rock and splashed ice-cold water on his face. He was instantly wide-awake.

That’s better, he thought.

Then he realized the reason it was better was because he could hear the music more clearly. He stood, water dripping from his face, and looked about the starlit darkness. Everything around him—the air, the water, the earth, the rocks—all seemed to be responding to the song. But Gabriel had said not to listen! Well, Michael thought, Gabriel was a wonderful fellow and knew about a great many useful things, but music was obviously not one of them. There could be nothing dangerous about such a song. It was a song about the air and the water, about the trees and the birds, about those giant beetles that flew without looking where they were going; it was a song about life. And it was asking you to join it—to dance. Michael began swaying back and forth, his right hand ghost-conducting in the air. And I love dancing, Michael thought, even though he’d never
danced once in his entire life and had always taken great pains to avoid it.

He shook Emma awake.

She moaned and kept her eyes shut. “… Stop it.”

“Emma, wake up!”

“But I was dreaming and there was …”

She fell silent. Michael saw she’d heard the music.

“It’s real.…”

“I know!” Michael was bursting with happiness. He’d had the most wonderful idea. He’d told Gabriel he wouldn’t leave Emma, but what if he brought her along to search for the music? “Come on! We’ve gotta find it!”

And he seized Emma by the hand and dragged her into the forest. The music was coming from further along in the direction of the volcano. Strangely, the ferns that had fought their passage all day now seemed to give way before the children, bending back to open a path.

“Where’s—Gabriel?” Emma panted.

“He went to look for the music!”

“You think we’ll find him?”

“Maybe. If not, we can look for him while we’re dancing!”

“Yay!” cried Emma, who generally disliked dancing at least as much as Michael did. “And then Gabriel can dance with us!”

“Ha! He’s probably there dancing already!” Michael laughed.

And then, quite suddenly, they arrived.

It was a large, circular clearing, ringed by great trees. The ferns stopped at the edge of the clearing, and the ground beyond was covered by low, thick grass. Across the clearing, Michael could
see figures with torches emerging from the trees. They were too far away to see well, but Michael knew that they were the ones making the music. And it was then he realized that the music was singing, that voices were making those beautiful sounds.

Emma let out a small cry and leapt forward, but Michael yanked her back.

“What’re you doing? We—”

“I just had an awful thought.” They were crouched beside one of the trees at the edge of the clearing. Michael tried to sound as grave as possible. He needed Emma to understand the seriousness of what he was about to say. “What if we’re not wearing the right clothes? I don’t want to look stupid.”

Emma stared at him, then nodded. “That’s really good thinking.”

“I know,” Michael said. And he cursed himself for not making Gabriel carry a set of fancier clothes in his pack. He should’ve known something like this would happen.

The figures were moving toward the center of the clearing, and as they drew closer, the torches shone on their faces. The children stared in wonder.

“Michael … are those …?”

“Yes.”

“Really? I mean, really and truly?”

“Yes.” His voice was dry as a stone, but he managed to say, “Those are elves.”

There were perhaps forty of them. Some were carrying torches, others had lanterns. All of them were singing, and while not
exactly dancing, the very way they walked, even their smallest gesture, was more graceful than any dance. And every one of them—Michael’s heart sank as he realized this—was dressed incredibly well.

What Michael thought of as the girl elves wore long white-and-cream dresses of frilly material, while the boy elves wore white trousers and shirts, along with pink-and-white-, blue-and-white-, or green-and-white-striped jackets. The boy elves wore stiff-brimmed straw hats. The girl elves twirled parasols on their dainty shoulders. A few of the elves carried wooden tennis rackets.

Michael recognized the clothes as the fashions of a hundred years ago, and the logical part of his brain, which was still functioning, albeit at a very low level, reminded him that it had been a hundred years ago that the magical world had gone into hiding. The elves, it seemed, had simply kept up the trends of that time.

And right they were, Michael thought. They looked marvelous.

“Their clothes are so beautiful!” Emma was on the verge of tears. “We’ll never find clothes like that!”

“Shhh,” Michael said. “I want to hear.”

For the elves had all gathered in the center of the clearing, and they abruptly shifted from the ethereal, wordless song that Michael and Emma had heard in their dreams to a new song, one with a jaunty, let’s-all-go-boating sort of tune.

And this time, Michael could make out the words:

“What’re they singing about?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “It’s a lovely song, though. Don’t you think?”

“It is,” Emma said. “Very lovely.”

And it occurred to Emma that she didn’t use the word
lovely
half as often as she should and she would definitely correct that. It was a lovely word,
lovely
.

“Lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely …”

“What’re you doing?” Michael whispered.

“Just saying the word
lovely
,” Emma whispered back.

“Oh,” Michael said, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that. “Right.”

And as they watched the elves and listened to the song, they both murmured, “Lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely …”

Some of the elves were doing cartwheels around the clearing, a few played leapfrog, and one was riding around on one of those old-fashioned bicycles with a giant front wheel and a tiny back wheel. Several of the elves had opened wicker picnic baskets and were handing out beverages and food, mostly cake. Two of the elves had begun to set up what looked to Michael like
a dunking booth. The whole scene was strangely familiar, and Michael realized where he’d seen such things before: in old movies, when people would have town fairs, with bobbing for apples and pie-eating contests and something involving a greased pig. Just as their clothes were stuck in the past, so too were the elves’ traditions. Michael was charmed.

“Lovely,” he murmured. “Lovely.”

And the song went on:

“Did you know there were elves here?” Emma whispered.

“No. It’s a really nice surprise, though,” Michael said.

“It sure is. How’s my hair look?”

This was the first time in her life that Emma had asked this question.

Michael looked at her. She had not showered since the previous day, when they’d stayed at the cottage in Spain, and since then they’d climbed through a tomb, run through a sewer, jumped into a canal, hiked through a blizzard—which involved the wearing of hats and hoods and much sweating—and slept on a bed of ferns.

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“It looks like a bum’s hair. I’m sorry. But you have bum hair.”

“It’s okay,” Emma said. “You have bum hair too.”

“Look what they’ve got!” Michael exclaimed.

“Oh, lucky!”

The elves had set up a long wooden vanity with four stations, each one facing a mirror and outfitted with a full complement of brushes, combs, tweezers, clippers, various ointments, tonics, and powders, and the children were filled with such desire for those brushes and tonics and powders that they very nearly rushed into the clearing, and indeed might have had not the vanity’s chairs been instantly filled by girl and boy elves fixing their hair, powdering their cheeks, plucking invisible hairs, though several of them, Michael noticed, just sat gazing at themselves in the mirrors, exclaiming, “You look wonderful! You really do! You look wonderful!”

“We can’t go out there like this,” Michael said. “I’ve got scissors on my knife. We’ll just cut off all our hair! No hair’s better than bum hair, right?”

“Wait,” Emma said, “I’ve got a better idea!”

She ran a few feet into the forest and returned with an armful of fern fronds.

“We’re going to make fancy hats! Then no one will see our bum hair!”

Michael could scarcely believe what amazing ideas Emma was having tonight. First saying
lovely
over and over, and now the fancy-hats idea.

They set to work, using Michael’s pocketknife to cut the fronds into five- and six-inch pieces, but they soon hit an obstacle, realizing they had no way of actually attaching the fronds. Then Michael got the idea of scooping up handfuls of moist, mud-like earth from the bases of the trees and using it to coat their heads.