Fergus Crane

by Paul Stewart

  At the end of the two weeks, Fergus was quite an expert, even helping Finn with the wind-up gramophone he used to play soothing music to the giant trees. Their favourite record, or so Finn maintained, was ‘Daisy's Lament’ from The Cycling Fish, sung by Dame Ottaline Ffarde.

  In addition, Fergus practised flying the winged horse. Every evening, after the day's work in the greenhouses had been finished, but before the sun had set, Fergus would climb up into the saddle and the great metal creature would soar up into the sky.

  ‘You're a natural, my boy,’ Uncle Theo had laughed at the end of the first week, as Fergus and the horse came gently back to earth.

  ‘That's not what you said last week,’ said Fergus, jumping from the saddle, ‘and I haven't fallen off once!’

  ‘I had the horse set on automatic rider for your own safety, Fergus, but that was before I realized what a quick learner you are,’ said Uncle Theo. ‘I think we can lose this, now.’ He removed the DO NOT TOUCH sign from the reins. ‘It's all yours, my boy!’

  For the following week, Fergus had the time of his life as he mastered swooping dips, wheeling turns and hair-raising loop-the-loops, all at a flick of the reins.

  Finally, the day of departure had arrived.

  ‘Fergus,’ Uncle Theo had said sternly. ‘I've done all I can. The horse will take you to Fire Isle, so you don't need to use the reins. Once you're there, of course, you may ride where you will. But you must promise me this, Fergus. You are to engage in no dangerous heroics. Think of your poor dear mother waiting for you at home.’

  Fergus had nodded solemnly.

  ‘If the Betty-Jeanne has made it to Fire Isle,’ his uncle had continued, ‘then you must go straight to Captain Claw and offer him the scuttle-bug in return for the safety of your classmates. He might be a black-hearted pirate, but he's no fool. He'll realize that the scuttle-bug will do the job every bit as well as your poor comrades ever could, Tunnel Exercise or no Tunnel Exercise.’

  Fergus had nodded again.

  ‘Remember, Fergus,’ Uncle Theo had called after him as the flying horse rose into the air. ‘No heroics!’

  As the great winged beast flapped on across the ocean his Uncle Theo's words came back to him, and Fergus shook his head. The last thing he felt right now, out here all alone, was heroic.

  Fergus never discovered just how long he travelled, for somewhere over the seemingly endless expanse, the first day blurred into the next, with a long cold night in between. When he was tired, he slept, clinging on tightly round the flying horse's neck; when he was hungry or thirsty, he sampled the exotic rations and delicious hot chocolate dispensed by the scuttle-bug. Finally – after what Fergus would later describe as ‘the longest flight of my life’ – he spotted land.

  As they drew closer, Fergus saw that there were in fact two rocky islands coming to meet one another, divided by a channel of water. They must be approaching the Stormy Straits, the gateway to the Emerald Sea.

  The flying horse flew into the oncoming wind, its wings beating powerfully, and it wasn't long before Fergus was able to see a patch of almost luminous green far in the distance. Closer and closer it came until, all at once, the air grew still and below him the sea glinted like a vast slab of polished jade.

  And there were the islands, Fergus saw, his heart leaping: Horseshoe Island, just as he'd imagined it; and Magnet Island, its entire surface covered in dark green trees; and a small rocky island which looked like a tiny seahorse. Further they flew, the air warm and scented with spices and herbs. The sun had passed its highest point and was coming down in the sky far ahead.

  The archipelago came into view, looking even more like a scorpion from above than it did on the map. Fergus counted off the islands, his heart thumping with excitement, as the great winged horse followed the scorpion's long clawed legs, the curve of its back and on, along its tail. Fergus's heart missed a beat.

  ‘There it is,’ Fergus whispered as the last island of all came into view. There was no doubt. It was Fire Isle.

  Curved, pointed, fringed with glittering sand and with a tall, cone-shaped volcano glowing at its centre, the island seemed to sparkle like a jewel in the half-light of the setting sun. The flying horse began to descend in the sky.

  As it came lower, Fergus pulled sharply on the reins. There was a familiar click from inside the horse's head as he took control. He tugged to the left, and they circled the island – once, twice – with Fergus peering down through the trees and scouring the beaches, with their white sand and orange and grey speckled boulders, for any sign of footprints. Lower still they came, until he could see the coconuts in the palms and the bulbous red and black nuts hanging from the spreading branches of the macadacchio trees that grew there.

  Interesting, he thought; but not what he was looking for. He steered the horse back to the shoreline and yanked hard down on the reins. Abruptly, the flying horse flew back up into the sky. It soared over the rocky outcrop before it, and the island beyond opened up.

  Fergus gasped with surprise.

  On the other side of the rocks was a small, natural harbour. And there, tied up to a pinnacle of rock was a ship. Fergus stared down at the tall masts and the furled sails.

  It was the Betty-Jeanne.

  he flying horse swooped down and landed on the foredeck almost without a sound. Fergus gratefully dismounted, stretched and looked round. The ship seemed deserted.

  ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Hello, is there anybody aboard? It's me, Fergus!’

  From above his head, high up in the parrot's nest, there came a familiar squawk.

  ‘Fergus! Fergus!’ Bolivia's voice floated down. ‘You've come back! You've come back!’

  The parrot emerged from her hiding place and swooped down to join Fergus on deck.

  ‘They've gone! They've gone!’ Bolivia squawked, settling on Fergus's arm. ‘To the big mountain! Boom! Boom!’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Fergus, a look of concern on his face. ‘What's happened to you, Bolivia?’ The parrot looked decidedly bedraggled – her wing feathers ruffled, bare patches at her neck, and with several tail feathers missing entirely.

  ‘Captain Claw! Captain Claw!’ said Bolivia. ‘Eat me! Cook me! Parrot stew!’

  ‘The big bully!’ said Fergus hotly. ‘He doesn't deserve a fine bird like you.’ He smoothed down Bolivia's feathers. ‘Here, I've got a real treat for you,’ he said, and clicked his fingers.

  The scuttle-bug jumped down from the saddle and stood beside him.

  ‘What would you say to a bowl of hot chocolate with macadacchio nuts?’

  A cold wind was blowing round the top of the volcano. It hit the hot, smoky air emerging from the volcanic crater, mingled, and caused dark, gold-edged clouds to gather in the sky far above.

  On the lip of the mighty volcano stood Captain Claw, a whistle in his hand and a metal bucket on the end of an iron chain hanging from his clawlike hook. Further down, where the jungle lapped at the volcano's steep slopes, were four pairs of individuals – each made up of a pirate and a child – standing beside four tiny pot-holes.

  ‘When I blow the whistle!’ Captain Claw roared. ‘The Tunnel Exercise will begin!’

  He glared down at his crew. Lizzie Blood stood with a length of rope attached to a harness worn by a shocked-looking Sylvie Smith. Horace Tucker tried to smile, his rope held by a yawning Red-Beard Spicer; while Short John Gilroy scowled and yanked at Spike Thompson's harness, causing the boy to scowl back. Mouse looked down at her feet. Beside her One-Eyed Jack Woodhead smiled nastily.

  ‘When you've filled this bucket with fire diamonds,’ Captain Claw bellowed, the long length of chain jangling against the metal bucket as he held it up, ‘you are to tug twice on the rope. Your teachers will then pull you to the surface. Is everybody ready?’

  The pirates all nodded and pushed their children towards the pot-holes. Captain Claw smiled malevolently and winked at One-Eyed Jack, who laughed. Then he turned back to the volcano's edge, placed the whistle in
his mouth, and blew.

  When Fergus heard Captain Claw's bellowed commands echoing far above his head, he groaned miserably. Uncle Theo had told him to offer the scuttle-bug in exchange for the safe release of his friends, but once again he had arrived too late. Horace and Mouse, Sylvie and Spike had already been despatched down the tunnels to carry out Captain Claw's dirty work for him.

  Fergus crawled forward, the little machine buzzing and clicking softly in his backpack. He had to know exactly what was going on. Before he'd gone far, he heard a noise to his left. There was someone there.

  Taking care to remain silent himself, Fergus crept towards the noise. He paused, parted the branches and peered out. Red-Beard Spicer was just ahead of him, standing beside a pothole. Fergus frowned. The pirate was feeding a length of rope down into the pot-hole, letting the rope slip through his fingers.

  Fergus stared at the rope in horror. At the end of it was one of his friends – Horace, if he had got his bearings right and this was indeed The Glory Hole.

  Just then, the pot-hole gurgled and belched, and a cloud of pungent yellow smoke billowed up into the air. Fergus gagged. It was The Glory Hole, all right!

  Poor Horace, he thought. He'll have to be better than ever at holding his breath down there if …

  Fergus's jaw dropped as he saw the frayed end of the rope suddenly flick through Spicer's hands. The man made no effort to stop it. Instead, a bored smile playing on his lips, he put his hands nonchalantly in his pockets.

  ‘Glory Hole away!’ he called up to Captain Claw.

  His voice was joined by the shouts of the other pirates.

  ‘Big Dipper away!’

  ‘Corkscrew away!’

  ‘Devil's Pot away!’

  Fergus's blood was boiling. Captain Claw and the pirates had no intention of pulling the children to safety after the iron bucket was full. The ropes were just for show; a cruel joke …

  No heroics! Uncle Theo's voice came back to him once more. No heroics!

  With a sigh, Fergus turned and disappeared into the jungle, back the way he'd come.

  he pirates were clustered round Captain Claw at the lip of the volcano, watching intently as he lowered the metal bucket into the crater's smoking depths. The iron chain clinked and clanked against his clawlike hook. Far below, the children were crawling towards the fire caverns, unaware that the pirates had abandoned them to their fate.

  ‘Scurvy deck-swabbers!’ spat Lizzie Blood. ‘I'm glad to be rid of them!’

  ‘Me, too, Lizzie, me old love,’ said Red-Beard Spicer in a bored voice. ‘Pot-holing for beginners? Pot-holing for losers, more like!’

  One-Eyed Jack Woodhead folded his tattooed arms and gave a nasal laugh. ‘No more Tunnel Exercise, that's for sure!’

  ‘And we'll be rich,’ sniggered Short John Gilroy, wiping his hands excitedly on his filthy apron. ‘Rich beyond our wildest dreams!’

  ‘Come on, come on,’ growled Captain Claw impatiently. ‘What's taking the little beggars so blasted long?’

  Just then, the chain gave a slight jolt. Then another one. And another, and another …

  ‘The little beauties!’ chuckled Captain Claw. ‘That's the job. Fill the bucket with those fire diamonds right up to the top, then we can be on our way.’

  He laughed again, and the others all joined him in a rising chorus of hideous cackles – which, the next moment, collapsed into wheezy splutters and choking coughs as the volcano began belching out thick clouds of sulphurous smoke. A while later, the chain in Captain Claw's one good hand and less good metal claw gave a sharp lurch, followed by another.

  ‘It's full!’ cried Captain Claw. ‘Quick, everyone! Help me haul it up!’

  The pirates jumped to it, forming a line and grabbing the chain like the seasoned seafarers they were, as if raising a sail. Captain Claw moved to the back and gripped the end of the chain.

  ‘One, two, three and heave!’ he roared. ‘Heave! Heave! Heave …’

  Slowly, the heavy iron bucket rose through the clouds of eye-watering, breath-snatching fumes.

  ‘Heave!’ roared Captain Claw for the final time as the bucket, glowing faintly from the intense heat, swung into view.

  At that same moment, from high above him, there came the sound of beating wings and the clouds of smoke parted briefly to reveal a mighty winged horse hovering directly overhead. Captain Claw and the pirates stared at it, open-mouthed.

  Fergus Crane leaned forward in the saddle and looked down. Beside him was a large orange and grey speckled rock from the beach; the heaviest one he could find.

  Fergus brought the flying horse round, took aim and, grunting with effort, shoved the rock off the saddle. With a whistle – oddly small and soft for something so big and hard – it hurtled down through the air. Fergus watched it, his heart in his mouth, his breath held, his fingers crossed for good luck …

  Clang!

  It landed loudly and heavily on the top of the bucket-ful of fire diamonds and the air echoed with the sound of chains rattling through grasping hands as the bucket plunged back down into the depths of the volcano.

  ‘NO!’ roared Captain Claw, unwilling to let his precious fire diamonds disappear.

  He gripped the chain and held on with all his might. In front of him, the other pirates did the same, digging their heels – and one wooden stump – into the crumbly ash at the top of the volcano.

  But it was no good. The bucket was too heavy for them. One by one, they were tugged forwards to the lip of the volcanic crater, howling and cursing and uttering the foulest of oaths – but refusing to let go.

  ‘Hell's haddocks!’ howled Red-Beard Spicer, disappearing over the edge.

  ‘By Satan's starfish!’ cursed One-Eyed Jack Woodhead, following him.

  ‘Heave, blast you!’ Captain Claw screeched, his head back, his mouth grimacing, and every muscle in his body straining.

  ‘Blood and gunpowder!’ screeched Lizzie Blood as she, too, abruptly disappeared into the crater.

  ‘Pilchard stew!’ cried Short John Gilroy, joining her a moment after.

  ‘I … won't … let … go …’ Captain Claw snarled through clenched teeth. ‘The fire diamonds are mine … Aaaargh!’ he screamed as he followed the bucket and the other pirates over the edge and down, down into the fiery heart of the mighty volcano.

  he flying horse landed on the slope of the volcano beside the nearest pot-hole. Fergus jumped down and rushed to the entrance.

  ‘Hello?’ he called.

  ‘Hello … hello … hello …’ his own voice echoed back.

  ‘Is there anyone there? Horace? Mouse? Sylvie? Spike? Can you hear me?’

  ‘… hear me? … hear me?’

  It was no good. Uncle Theo might have told him not to take part in any heroics, but his friends were in danger. He couldn't just leave them there, could he? Without a second thought, Fergus fell to his knees and crawled into the hole.

  The first thing that struck him was the air. It was oven-hot and so thick with smoke that Fergus could barely see his hands in front of his face. Ahead of him, the tunnel seemed to plunge down almost vertically into blackness.

  Slowly and carefully, he lowered himself down, his feet and shoulders braced against the jagged rock. Soon he found himself in complete darkness, the sound of his breathing loud in his head against the distant roaring of the volcano far below.

  The deeper Fergus went, the hotter it became, and the pungent fumes caught in his throat and made his eyes water. It took all his strength and concentration to stop himself from slipping and plunging down into the inky depths.

  Not even Tunnel Exercise had prepared him for this.

  Suddenly, the rock beneath his left foot crumbled and fell away in a clattering shower of rock shards. Fergus felt himself falling.

  ‘UNNKH!’

  The wind was completely knocked out of him as he hit the rocky floor at the bottom of the shaft.

  Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Fergus looked about him. Ahead,
the narrow tunnel snaked away, its walls bathed in the fiery glow of the volcano.

  The vertical drop; the levelling out into a narrow tunnel … Fergus knew this place. It was bigger, hotter and far more frightening than the tunnel in the ballast, but there was no doubt. This was The Devil's Pot.

  ‘Spike! Spike!’ Fergus called. ‘Spike, are you there?’

  There was no reply, only the constant roaring noise of the fiery volcano.

  Taking a deep breath and summoning up all his courage, Fergus crawled forward, towards the sound of the inferno. The tunnel grew narrower and narrower. Fergus hurt his elbows and shins as he scrambled and squeezed his way along it. But though twice as hot and four times as long as the tunnel in the ballast, he was determined that the real Devil's Pot was not going to defeat him.

  At last, grazed and gasping for breath, Fergus squeezed round the last bend and stopped. In front of him was the most spectacular sight he had ever seen.

  He was standing in a huge vaulted chamber that shimmered with dazzling light. Reds, purples, iridescent blues, luminous yellows and greens all danced and swirled in a hypnotic kaleidoscope of colour. The walls and ceiling seemed to be made up of countless intricate crystals, as if the entire cave had been dipped in sugar.

  Fergus reached out and touched the cavern wall. With a faint click, a crystal fell into his hand, and Fergus found himself staring at a flawless, perfectly-formed fire diamond.

  ‘Fergus?’ came a voice behind him. ‘Fergus, is that you?’

  Fergus spun round and squinted into the dazzling brightness. Someone was stumbling towards him along the ledge that ran round the cavern walls; someone small, someone with a black bob and dark eyes …

  ‘Mouse!’ he cried.

  ‘It is you!’ said Mouse. ‘Oh, Fergus, they cut the rope! I could have died!’