by Alan Skinner
It didn’t take them long to eat and get ready. With the leather aprons over their overalls and thick leather gloves on their hands, they were hot and sweating before they’d even set to work.
Touch grabbed his welding mask and the pick and walked up to the burning stone. He slid the mask on his head and pulled the faceplate down. The glass on the face mask was tinged slightly red, making the blue flames purple. He raised the pick, swung it back over his shoulder and brought it down with all his strength on the stone.
The point of the pick rebounded from the rock, wrenching the muscles of his hands and wrists. His fingers tingled and it felt as if every bone in him rattled. He looked at the stone in disbelief. There wasn’t even a mark where the pick had hit it. Touch adjusted his grip, moving his hands almost to the end of the handle. Twice more he swung the pick as hard as he could, but the blows left not even a scratch on the stone.
Cres put on her helmet. From the pile of tools, she selected the crowbar with the pointed end. Her eyes scanned the stone for a crack or fissure. Spotting a line that looked like it could be a fault in the stone, she gave it a hard jab. But like the pick, the crowbar simply rebounded.
Despite the jarring of her bones, Cres struck the stone again and again. Touch could see what she was trying to do and, when Cres stopped to rest her arms, he attacked the same spot with the pick.
They took turns. Cres jabbed, trying to force the bar into the stone; Touch hammered the stone with the pick, trying to split the rock. After an hour, Cres stepped back, exhausted. She dropped the crowbar and slumped to the floor.
Touch came as close as he dared to the stone. He could feel the heat through his gloves, scorching his hands. He rested the point of the pick on the spot he aimed to hit, and spread his feet slightly further apart. His muscles prepared to unleash what strength they had left in one final blow.
Before he could swing the pick, the wooden handle turned into a shaft of blue flames. They roared down the handle towards Touch’s gloves. He dropped the burning pick and tried to shake the gloves from his hands. His right glove flew free but the left one refused to come off. A tiny spark of blue fire appeared on the back of the glove. Even through the thick leather, Touch could feel its heat.
‘Cres!’ he yelled. ‘The glove!’
Cres grabbed his glove and wrenched it free of his hand. The spark immediately leapt to her own glove. She dropped Touch’s glove, tore off one of her own and then flicked the other on to the floor. They watched, stunned, as the tiny sparks burst into a ball of blue flames and burned all four gloves to nothing.
They looked back at the stone. Nothing remained of the pick handle, and the head had dropped on to the stone. Already it glowed red hot, and within moments the edges began to turn orange and white.
The pair backed away. Defeated, they slumped on to their sleeping bags and sat clutching their knees and watching the terrible fire.
Touch winced and blew on his left hand.
‘Let me see,’ Cres commanded.
Touch’s hand was bright red. Milky blisters had already formed on the back of his hand. Cres felt like crying.
‘We didn’t bring anything! Oh, Touch! I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault. It’ll be OK. Hurts, though,’ Touch said bravely.
‘Now what?’ Cres asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied miserably. He stared at the flaming stone. ‘I didn’t realise what it was actually like. Did you see how fast the fire burned the handle? And the gloves? It’s . . .’
‘Frightening,’ Cres finished for him.
‘Nothing can break that stone.’ Touch was disconsolate. ‘We’ve failed, Cres. We won’t be bringing back the blue fire.’
‘It was a good idea, Touch. It really was.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? Oh well, there goes our chance of being famous.’ Touch sighed.
They sat, tired, discouraged and very hot. They were reluctant to give up and return to Forge but it didn’t look like they had much choice. For the moment, though, they were too depressed to do anything but sit and stare at the flames.
‘Well, what do we have here?’
Touch and Cres felt their hearts leap right out their bodies at the unexpected voice.
‘Friends of yours, Hazlitt?’ said another voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Relatives maybe, Edith. But friends? I doubt it,’ said the first voice.
Touch and Cres turned. In the entrance to the cave stood a man and a woman. They were tall – taller than most Myrmidots – but they were not dressed like any Myrmidots Touch and Cres knew. Both wore dark brown shirts, with dark green trousers and sturdy brown leather boots. Both carried large canvas bags draped over one shoulder.
‘But we’ve only just met,’ said the man as the couple walked into the cave, ‘and maybe, in time, we can call each other friend.’
The man and the woman stood in front of Touch and Cres and smiled down at them.
‘They look surprised,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps we should have knocked before rudely barging in on them.’
‘I’m sure we should have, my dear. It’s surprising how quickly one loses one’s manners when one is away from civilisation,’ the man replied.
‘We should introduce ourselves,’ said the woman. Her right hand rested on the man’s arm. ‘This is Hazlitt, and I’m Edith.’ She raised her hand and rested it delicately on her throat for a moment, before holding it out to Touch and Cres.
The apprentices scrambled to their feet. Myrmidots, like Muddles and Beadles, never shake hands and neither Touch nor Cres knew what to do with the hand being offered to them.
Touch cleared his throat. His left hand was nearest Cres, so he rested it on her arm and said in a croaky voice, ‘This is Cres and I’m Touch.’ He laid his hand on his chest, and then held it out straight in front of him as Edith had done.
‘They’re so sweet!’ Edith cried. ‘Touch and Cres. What delightful names!’ She took Touch’s extended hand between both her own and squeezed gently. Touch winced. ‘And so polite, Hazlitt!’ she purred. ‘It’s a relief to know that young people are well brought up, even in the most remote place.’
‘You seem to be hurting him, Edith. Let go of his hand now,’ said Hazlitt.
Edith opened her hands and looked at Touch’s.
‘Oh, the poor boy! He’s been burned, Hazlitt! How terrible!’
‘So he has, so he has. We should put something on it to make it better,’ said Hazlitt. He opened his pack and rummaged. ‘Ah, just the thing,’ he said, pulling out a small white jar. ‘Let me see your hand, Touch.’
Before Touch could move, Hazlitt was holding his wrist and examining his hand.
‘That’s a nasty burn. I expect the blue fire did that. You’re very lucky, that it didn’t burn your hand to a cinder.’
Hazlitt scooped a dollop of cream and let it drop on to Touch’s hand. Edith reached over and very gently spread the cream until it covered the burns.
‘There, that will keep it clean and stop it hurting,’ said Edith.
‘Thank you,’ said Touch. He was surprised to find that the pain eased immediately.
Hazlitt walked across to the stone of fire. He examined the glowing pick head.
‘Well, you two,’ he said. ‘It looks like you’ve been trying to break off a piece. I’m not surprised you were burned. In fact, I’m rather surprised that you weren’t injured more seriously.’
A look of surprise came to Edith’s face. ‘But whatever could you want with a piece of cinerite?’
Cres’s eyebrows rose. ‘Cinerite? Is that what it’s called?’
‘That’s what we call it. And since you don’t appear to have a name for it, then that’s as good a one to use as any,’ said Edith.
‘Exactly,’ Hazlitt agreed, and then turning to Edith he said, ‘Don’t you think it a bit strange that this is the only land where cinerite is found and they don’t even have a name for it?’
‘We often ignore things right under our no
ses,’ Edith replied with an air of regret.
‘Excuse me,’ Touch interrupted politely. ‘But who are you?’
‘I do believe we introduced ourselves earlier,’ Hazlitt said, with just a hint of exasperation.
‘What I meant is, where are you from? Are you Muddles?’
The couple exchanged a quick smile and then laughed. ‘Oh dear! What a thought!’ Edith exclaimed. ‘No, my dear. We’re Myrmidots. Like you.’
‘Myrmidots? But we’ve never seen you before and I thought I knew everyone in Myrmidia,’ Touch said. A thought struck him. ‘How do you know we’re Myrmidots?’
‘Well, you’re not Beadles, that’s for sure. Not stout enough. And too tall. You seem to be what you are, so you can’t be Muddles. I believe that only leaves Myrmidots,’ Hazlitt explained.
‘We’re Myrmidots, too – original Myrmidots,’ continued Edith, ‘but not from Myrmidia. Whether that makes us still Myrmidots is a matter of opinion, I suppose.’
Warily, Touch asked, ‘Are you from the same place as. . . as. . . that lady. . .’
‘Amelia,’ said Cres.
‘As a matter of fact, yes. That’s why we’re here,’ answered Hazlitt.
Touch felt very uncomfortable. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, but we had better go.’ He nudged Cres. ‘We said we’d be back by tonight and we don’t want them to come looking for us when we’re perfectly OK and not in any danger and . . .’ Touch’s voice trailed off. ‘And quite safe, really.’
‘Edith, we seem to have made them nervous. It is obvious that we’ve arrived too late and that Amelia has been some trouble,’ said Hazlitt. He put his hand on his heart. ‘I promise you, young Touch, that we have come to take Amelia back with us and we don’t wish you any harm. You don’t know where she is, do you?’
Touch nodded. He pointed to the burning stone. ‘There.’
Hazlitt’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘There?’ he asked.
Edith’s mouth opened in horror. ‘You don’t mean she . . .?’
‘She jumped. I wasn’t here when it happened. The others said she tried to throw a Beadle in there and they stopped her. Then she jumped on to the stone. She thought it would make her stronger or something. I’m sorry. Was she a friend of yours?’
‘Poor Amelia,’ said Edith. ‘No, Touch, she wasn’t exactly a friend. But we were responsible for her. Oh dear. However shall I tell her cat?’
‘And she tried to throw a Beadle on the stone, did she? One of her own, I hope, not a local.’ Hazlitt tutted. ‘Perhaps you can tell us all about it, and the trouble you say she caused.’
Touch and Cres related all that had happened: how Amelia had set fire to buildings in Beadledom, how the companions had come to the High Mountains for the blue ice, how Amelia had tried to kill Brian and how she had met her end.
‘And her Beadle, Kevin, he still lives in Beadledom?’ asked Hazlitt.
‘I believe so,’ Cres answered. ‘We’ve not actually met him.’
‘I don’t believe you got around to telling us why you wanted some cinerite,’ said Edith.
Touch and Cres were a bit startled by the sudden change of topic. Nonetheless, they told their story, leaving out, of course, the explosion at the factory and a good many other mishaps.
Hazlitt studied them for a moment when they had finished. He looked at them gravely.
‘Very admirable. You are, both of you, courageous and resourceful young apprentices. It would be a shame if you had to go back empty-handed. Especially as you say you have the blessing of Achillia and – what was her name? – Beatrice.’
‘Hazlitt, dear, I have an idea. Why don’t we help these two in their brave expedition?’ said Edith.
Touch and Cres felt a surge of hope and looked at Hazlitt, who returned their gaze without expression. He glanced over to the metal wagon. ‘Is that what you intended to use to carry it back to Forge?’ he asked.
Touch and Cres nodded.
‘Do you mind if I look at it?’ he said.
Without waiting for an answer, he went to the wagon and examined it. He undid the catch and opened the lid and peered inside. He rapped on the walls and floor of the wagon.
‘This just might do,’ he said. ‘Though you will need to go straight back. This will hold it, but not for long. I wouldn’t stop to sleep if I were you.’
Touch and Cres just nodded. It seemed that they might return in triumph after all.
‘One question. How do you intend to use the power in the cinerite?’
Hope of success pushed aside the reservations Touch had about Hazlitt and Edith. ‘Steam,’ he announced proudly. ‘We will make a furnace of hardened metal, thicker than the wagon. We’ll put the fire – I mean cinerite – into the furnace, then run water through it and use the steam to power the factories. Imagine! All the power we need, and the fuel lasts for ever!’
‘Clever,’ said Edith. ‘I’m no engineer and technical details are beyond me, but you seem to have figured it all out. Hazlitt, I think we should help them. How big a piece do you reckon they’ll need?’
‘I should say that a piece about . . . well, about the size of Touch’s head should do,’ said Hazlitt.
‘I’ll let you get to work, then, dear, and I’ll just stand over near the entrance away from the heat. I’m starting to glow a bit,’ said Edith, sounding as if she was about to faint.
‘Right,’ said Hazlitt. ‘Bring the wagon closer, Touch.’ He looked around and saw the crowbar on the floor. ‘Ah, that should work. Pity it’s not longer but we’ll make do. Get the crowbar, that’s a good lad, Touch,’ he said.
‘Excuse me, Hazlitt, but we tried that,’ said Cres.
‘I’m sure you did, Cres. I am absolutely sure you did. It’s the preparation that’s important, though. The preparation. Now, do you have any more gloves?’
Touch and Cres shook their heads.
‘No matter, you can use mine.’ From one of the many pockets in his trousers, Hazlitt took a pair of soft brown leather gloves.
‘But these aren’t work gloves,’ exclaimed Cress. ‘They’re beautiful! They’ll be ruined!’
‘They’ll be fine. It’s just to provide a bit of protection from the heat when we lift the piece of cinerite,’ Hazlitt assured her.
Hazlitt held out the gloves and Touch took them. He tried putting on the left glove and gasped in pain.
‘Here, Touch, let me do it. My hand isn’t burned,’ offered Cres.
She put on the gloves. They were slightly too large, leaving space at the fingertips, but she marvelled at how they felt. She had never imagined gloves could be so soft and supple.
Once again, Hazlitt rummaged though his pack. He produced a silver flask with a nozzle on the end. To the nozzle he attached a long, thin, curved spout, like the beak of a flamingo.
‘Now, when I tell you,’ Hazlitt said to Cres, ‘I want you to use the sharp end of the crowbar to hit the rock. Hard as you can – one hard, sharp hit.’
‘OK,’ said Cres. ‘Where?’
‘You’ll see. We’ll take a piece near the edge, so you won’t have to reach over the fire. It will still be very, very hot that close, so be quick. The piece will fall away, into the ditch. Touch, as soon as it falls, grab it with the tongs. It’ll be heavy – so, Cres, drop the crowbar when the piece falls and get the other tongs and help Touch. Put it straight into the wagon and close the lid. Now, is everyone ready?’
Touch and Cres nodded. Cres hefted the crowbar and waited.
Hazlitt stood close to the burning stone. He pointed the end of the spout just above it, near the edge. With his other hand, he tipped the bottom of the flask. Water trickled from the spout down on to the great, flaming stone.
The instant the water touched the cinerite, the cave filled with steam. The burning rock hissed and crackled. Where the water hit it, the flames dipped and wavered. A small fissure appeared on the surface of the stone.
‘Now, Cres!’ Hazlitt commanded.
Cres swung the crowbar back and
then forwards, willing all her strength into the blow. The point hit the stone where it had cracked. Cres lost her balance and staggered forward, plunging towards the flames. She felt a hand on her collar as she was wrenched away from the fire.
The stone screeched and split. A chunk the size of an apprentice’s head broke free and slid into the flaming ditch circling the stone.
≈
Far to the south, among the coffee trees of Muddlemarsh, a piercing alarm sounded in Crimson’s head. Pain shot through her, like a pitchfork driven into her heart. She clutched the branch in front of her, keeping herself on her feet. It lasted no more than a heartbeat, then it was gone. It was so brief that, later, Crimson wondered if she had imagined it.
≈
The fragment of fire stone was heavier than Touch had expected. The jaws of the tongs, opened as wide as they would go, clamped round the broken piece. He tried to lift it. He could feel the heat on his face; it seared the burned patches on his left hand. The chunk started to slide back into the ditchs when Cres clamped her tongs on it. They pulled it free and, straining, turned and hoisted it above the open wagon. Releasing the tongs, they watched the flaming chunk of cinerite drop safely into the metal container with a dull clunk.
‘Well done!’ said Hazlitt. He closed and fastened the lid of the wagon. ‘Hot work, eh?’
Cres breathed heavily, more from the excitement and tension than the effort. She managed a nod, then looked at her gloves. Both were singed and stained.
‘Don’t worry about the gloves, Cres,’ said Hazlitt, tugging them from Cres’s hands. ‘I have another pair at home.’
Touch blew on his burns. Before he knew it, Edith was next to him, putting the soothing cream on his wounds.
The apprentices looked at the wagon in wonder as the realisation of what had just happened dawned on them.
‘We’ve got it, Cres,’ said Touch. A huge smile spread across his face. ‘We’ve done it! We won’t be going back empty-handed after all!’
Cres grinned back and turned to Hazlitt. ‘That wasn’t ordinary water, was it?’ she asked.
‘Ordinary water?’ he said, as if rolling the idea around in his head. ‘That’s an interesting philosophical question, Cres. What is ordinary? What is extraordinary? It’s very ordinary to plant an acorn to grow an oak tree. But it’s extraordinary that a tiny acorn can become a giant oak. Don’t you think?’
