by Sarah Webb
“You are a bully,” a tiny voice chirruped from the shadows.
“A challenger?” Iolar glared into the thicket of leaves. “Show yourself, if you dare.”
A leaf twisted and a tiny brown wren appeared.
Iolar’s beak opened and closed in astonishment, but no sounds came out.
“I am Dreolin the Wren, and I challenge you.”
A few of the smaller birds cackled in amusement, but the rest remained silent. The tiny and mysterious wrens swarmed unnoticed across many lands, absorbing customs, myth and lore. They got into places off limits to larger birds and animals and were reputed to know the language of the humani.
“Enough!” Relige hooted long and loud, the sound echoing like a horn in the dawn air. “Now, youuu must all remember,” the barn owl said, “this is not a race. Yes, flying high is important, but we are also looking for strength, skill, endurance and strategy. Soo, take youuur time.” He paused and raised his wings again.
“Are you almost ready …?”
The flocks shuffled and settled on the branches.
“Are you nearly ready …?”
They fell silent and the forest grew hushed.
“Are you ready …?”
A sparrow suddenly darted up in a flurry of wings, realised its mistake and fell back with an embarrassed cheep.
“Fly!”
With the sound of thunder, the huge flock of birds took off in an enormous cloud, rising up into the chill solstice morning sky. Branches shook and rattled as if in a storm and leaves twisted loose and swirled away. Some of the smaller trees around the ancient oak were stripped bare.
Relige and the swans, Eala and Aela, stared up at the flock of birds winging its way upwards.
“The Golden Eagle will win,” Eala said. “He will be insufferable.”
“He hasn’t won yet,” Relige said. Settling on to the branch, he wrapped his wings tightly round his body and closed his eyes.
“I will be king.” Iolar’s huge wings beat smoothly and strongly, pulling him upwards. He chanted in time with the beating of his wings. “I will be king. I will be king.”
Initially, the smaller lighter birds had risen first, little wings flapping furiously, but they were soon overtaken by the bigger birds, their larger wings carrying them up with slow powerful strokes. The small birds were careful not to fly beneath them – the downdraught from their wings could send them spinning out of the air.
“I will be king. I will be king.”
Already, Iolar had left most of the smaller birds behind and, as he looked down, he could see that some of them were beginning to spiral back to the earth. They were exhausted with the effort and they knew it was useless to go any further.
The eagle’s wings snapped wide, catching the wind, feeling it smooth and liquid beneath his feathers. Opening his beak, he called in triumph as he soared upwards. “I will be king.”
He was going to win. He was going to be the king of all the birds in Ireland.
Iolar continued climbing. Beneath him the ground curved away smoothly at the edges, the green and silver of the frost-covered land turning into the sharp blue of the sea. The eagle could make out the tiny patchwork squares of fields and the thin white threads of the roads cutting across the landscape. In the distance, on the coast, he could see a dirty smudge that was a collection of wood and mud huts – a humani village. Soon, even they would have to acknowledge him as king.
“I will be king.”
Iolar flew through clouds. The white fluffy balls looked so warm and soft, but were always damp and cold. A dusting of water droplets dappled his wings like jewels.
He rose higher still.
Soon, there was no one beneath him. A seagull had hung on for a surprisingly long time, but had given up as the sun began to rise on this, the shortest day of the year. The seagull had slowly drifted back to the ground leaving Iolar alone in the sky: he was the king of the birds.
“I am the king,” he said. “I am the king of the birds.”
On the ground Relige and the two swans watched the distant black dot rising high, high, higher into the sky. All around Eo Mugna, the Great Oak, birds were resting, lining the branches and bushes, gathered in small groups on the hard ground. They too were looking up, watching the eagle soar into the heavens. And, as the last solitary black-headed seagull fell back to earth, leaving the Golden Eagle alone in the skies, it was clear that Iolar would be king.
There was no point in going any further. He had won. Tilting to one side, Iolar began to fall back towards the earth. When he was closer to the earth, he would close his wings and plummet shockingly fast, frightening the smaller birds. At the very last minute he would open his great wings and stop, hang in the air and then drop lightly on to a branch. It would be a dramatic demonstration of his power.
The eagle twitched.
Something moved in the feathers on his back. He shrugged. It would blow off as he fell through the icy air.
He felt it move again. And then a familiar tiny voice said cheekily, “Thank you.”
Iolar twisted his head in time to see Dreolin the wren take flight off his back, wings beating furiously as it rose up into the sky. It began to sing, a delicate triumphant sound.
Iolar shouted and opened his wings, beating them furiously to catch the wind. But he was exhausted and had already dropped quite far, while the wren, who had hitched the ride on his back, was far, far above him, and rising fast on fresh wings.
“Come back,” Iolar shouted. “Come back. That’s not fair. I’ve won.”
Dreolin peered down, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Not yet you haven’t. Catch me if you can.”
The wren continued rising higher and higher. The eagle desperately attempted to catch up, but its wings were tired, each flap becoming more of an effort. He began to drop lower, slipping further away from the still-rising wren.
“Just you wait,” he whined.
The wren flew higher, singing, singing, singing.
Furious, Iolar plummeted towards the ground, only opening his wings a few feet above the soil. They snapped him to a stop and he slid to a halt before the barn owl, long talons digging grooves into the frost-speckled earth.
“Not fair. Not fair,” he attempted to shout, but it came out as a shrill shriek. “That’s not fair. He cheated.”
Relige smiled and looked from the furious eagle up to the tiny bird flying far above their heads. The wren dipped and spun in an intricate dance, snatches of its song carried down on the wind.
The barn owl looked at the two swans on either side of them and they whispered together for a few moments.
“Well?” Iolar demanded.
“Being a king means not only being big and strong and powerful, it also means being clever and thinking ahead and planning,” Relige said. “The wren did that.” The barn owl drew in a deep breath, puffing out his chest. “From this day forth,” Relige announced loudly, voice echoing and re-echoing through the ancient forests, “Dreolin the wren is the king of the birds of Ireland.”
And abruptly the ancient forest came alive to the vast flock singing, “The wren, the wren, the king of all birds …”
Gordon Snell is a writer and broadcaster, and the author of more than forty books for children and adults, published in Ireland, England, Australia, Canada and the United States. He also writes song lyrics, musicals and opera librettos for the stage, and for BBC and RTE radio and television. He lives in Dalkey, County Dublin.
Michael Emberley was born near Boston into a family of children’s book artists, and had his first book, Dinosaurs, published at nineteen. Michael has spent the last thirty-five years travelling, writing and illustrating award-winning children’s books while he figures out what he wants to do next. Michael lives in County Wicklow, Ireland.
Silla loved winter. She loved the snow, especially when the snowflakes fell for days and days, and piled up in huge drifts against the windows. She loved the wild screaming winds that seemed to slice like cold stee
l knives through the air.
But most of all she loved the ice. For Silla was the Ice Queen. She lived in an Ice Palace that had central freezing in every room, and microwave chillers where you could make your own instant ice cream. The curtains on the windows were made of chains of icicles that tinkled when you pulled them.
Silla loved to sit on her throne, looking out of the window at the dazzling white ice fields of her realm. Every day she drank a toast to the world of ice, from a cocktail glass full of chinking ice cubes, and sang a little song to herself:
“Ice is nice, ice is nice,
It grips your heart like a cosy vice,
I’d face any danger and I’d pay any price
For ice, ice, ice!”
When Silla wasn’t at her window, she liked to sit in her cold tub, or snuggle down in her icy bed watching Dancing on Ice on the television.
Sometimes she went out and skated on the frozen lakes, or put on skis and zoomed down the mountain slopes. She would tour her land in a sleigh drawn by two very large emperor penguins, while her pet penguin, Pauline, sat beside her. Sometimes they had a picnic in a big cave, sheltered from the winds. They ate ice burgers and ice chips, and seven different kinds of ice cream. Then they would sit back happily and sing songs like ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ and ‘Cool, Clear Water’.
One day, in the middle of one such song, Silla suddenly put her hand up and said, “Sssh!”
Pauline stopped singing and looked at Silla.
“Listen!” said the Ice Queen.
There was silence. Then they began to hear a regular sound, again and then again. It went on and on: Plop! … Plop! … Plop! … Plop! …
“Can you hear it, Pauline?”
Pauline nodded vigorously.
They listened again. The sound went on: Plop! … Plop! … Plop! …
Silla went to the mouth of the cave. On the ground they could see a small pool of water. Into the pool, from an icicle on the cave roof, drops were falling, one by one.
Plop! … Plop! … Plop!
Pauline gazed at Silla. The Ice Queen looked alarmed.
“It’s melting!” said Silla. “The icicle is melting!”
As they stared at the falling drops, they heard more plops start up. Another icicle on the roof was beginning to drip. Then another. And another. As more and more drops started falling around them, Silla and Pauline scooped up the remains of their picnic, and ran out into the open. The wind was blowing steadily, but Silla realised it was not the usual icy wind that she enjoyed so much. It was warm.
“A warm wind!” Silla was angry. “All things warm are banned from entering my domain! I won’t allow it!”
Pauline the penguin shook her head, frowning.
“Where can it be coming from?” Silla wondered.
They both gazed around at the empty, icy land. Then Pauline gave a little squeak and pointed to the sky behind them with her left flipper.
Silla turned and looked. From beyond the distant slope above the cave, she could hear a faint chuckle of laughter. As she stared, the top of a head with tousled hair appeared slowly. The lips were pursed together, blowing out air down the mountainside.
Silla and Pauline could feel the warmth of the breath as the icicles continued to drip and drip.
The head rose further. It was ruddy and bearded, and the body attached to it followed. It was dressed in a long white robe, tied round the middle with a belt made of large seashells.
“How do you do?” came a voice from the luxurious beard. “My name is Zeffa, King of the Warm Winds.”
Silla, who had been standing still, speechless with rage, found her voice. “I don’t care who you are!” she shouted. “You are invading my land. Go! Get out! NOW! Or I’ll make sure there’s not a warm breath left in your body!”
Zeffa held up his hand and said: “Peace! Lighten up, lady. I come in friendship.”
Silla hissed with fury. “Friendship!” she shrieked. “You start melting my cave roof, and then talk about friendship? I said get out of here, now!”
“Keep your cool!” said Zeffa, smiling. He began to float slowly down the slope towards them.
“Stop right there!” shouted Silla, while Pauline peeped round from behind her and gave a yapping hiss of her own.
Zeffa took no notice, and kept floating towards them.
“I warned you!” snarled Silla. “I’ll count to three, then it’s … ZAP!”
Still Zeffa continued floating in their direction.
Silla held her arms out in front of her. She knew her power. If she jabbed her arms forward, all her fingers pointing, whoever was in front of her would instantly freeze and turn into solid ice. This was how she had got rid of any of the early explorers she didn’t like. Their frozen figures now decorated her sculpture garden.
As Zeffa gently came to land a few metres in front of them, Silla shouted: “Right, that’s it! One! … Two! … Three! …”
She thrust her hands forward at him, her fingers spread out.
She waited. Nothing happened.
Zeffa smiled. He spread out his arms as if to say, So what?
Furiously the Ice Queen thrust her arms forward at him again. Once, twice, then a third time. Still there was no result.
“Don’t waste your energy, my dear.” Zeffa grinned. “It’s no use. Like you, I am a being who lives in another, parallel world, immune to such spells and mumbo jumbo.”
“Don’t patronise me, you hairy joker!” snapped Silla. “I know your icicle-melting tricks are just the start. Soon you’ll be roaming my land, breathing over the lakes and the ski slopes and the beautiful, glittering ice that I love and rule over. And before long they will all start to melt and disappear.”
“Exactly! But let me explain. I want to make peace …”
“I don’t want to hear any more!” said Silla. “This is war!”
“Very well,” said Zeffa. “But I suggest, instead of sipping cocktails and singing songs and having picnics with your little friend, you go out and take a look at this land you say you rule so well. Take a good look, because it won’t be here much longer; you have nearly lost the battle already. You might as well hear me out.”
“Never!” said Silla. “This is war, not peace! All-out war!”
“All right,” said Zeffa. “Catch me if you can!”
With a wave of his hand, the Ice Queen’s enemy took a huge, deep breath, puffing out his great chest. Then he blew the air out all at once like a jet stream and propelled himself at enormous speed away across the icy wastes until he had disappeared from view over the far horizon.
Silla and Pauline stared after him, blinking in surprise.
“Enough!” snapped Silla. “It’s time to rally the troops. Pauline, sound the alert!”
Pauline gave a piercing cry that turned into a kind of wailing yodel that went on for several minutes.
From far and near came a flapping sound, and a chorus of squeaks and whistles, as crowds of penguins came out of their homes among the snows and gathered round the Ice Queen.
“Order, order!” said Silla. “Form ranks. On parade!”
The penguins began trying to obey, but they had no practice in drilling, so they just milled about, flapping at each other with their flippers in a vain attempt to line up.
“That will do,” said Silla. “Well, comrades, there’s no time to lose. Remember:
“Ice is nice, ice is nice!
Into battle, pay the price!
Ice, ice, ice, ice!”
The raggle-taggle troops didn’t seem to be roused to much enthusiasm by this battle cry, but Silla climbed aboard her sleigh and gave an encouraging shout “Forward! Follow me! We shall beat that horrible hot-breathed hooligan!”
The Ice Queen surged ahead, her battalion of penguins following in a great unruly crowd, slithering and sliding and flapping their flippers. Silla felt that as a fierce military advance it wasn’t very impressive. But she said nothing. At least she had her own powers to fall back on a
nd if the worst came to the worst she could engage in a series of face-to-face personal combats with the enemy.
When they found the enemy! That turned out not to be too easy.
The ramshackle procession went slithering and flapping, and padding and pawing its way towards the border of the Ice Queen’s realm. When they got to Snowy Mountain, Silla looked puzzled and dismayed.
“Pauline,” she said, “this is called Snowy Mountain, right?”
Pauline nodded her head firmly.
“Then where is the snow?”
Pauline looked around.
“It’s gone!” cried the Ice Queen. “It must be that hot-air merchant Zeffa, breathing all over our mountains. I won’t stand for it. Come on, troops, up and at ’em! We’ll climb this peak and go down the glacier on the other side.”
When they reached the top of the glacier, the Ice Queen cried, “Onward!” and with whoops of glee her battalion started to slide and slither down the gleaming slope of ice on the other side. The Ice Queen followed bumpily in her sleigh, but not far from the bottom the ice began to get soft and slushy, and before long it was more like a shallow river.
“He’s been at it again!” roared Silla. “This glacier used to run right down as far as the sea. Before long he’ll have it melted away. We’ve no time to lose. Keep going, it will be two hours before we reach shore.”
The seashore marked the border of the Ice Queen’s domain, where the ice ended and the ocean stretched out to the horizon.
Only ten minutes had passed when Pauline tapped Silla on the arm, and pointed ahead.
“Holy snowflakes!” cried Silla. “Stop the sleigh!”
Just a few metres in front of them, they could see the normally flat expanse of ice moving up and down slowly like an ocean swell. They could hear a creaking sound, as slabs of ice jostled with each other, and beyond that was the open sea. Huge flat chunks of ice that had broken off the mainland were floating in the water and, further out, icebergs rose up like giant white rocks from the water. The air was still and silent.
