The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories

by Christopher Bunn

  Icicles hung down from inside the castle gate. They were enormous, as big around as a tree trunk. The wind whistled by and one of the icicles fell. It shattered on the ground, and an enormous, shining gem of ice lay among the shards. Peter picked it up and tucked it in his jacket.

  He hiked up the mountain through the snow. The wind danced around him, swirling snowflakes into the air. The mouth of the mine gaped open on the side of the mountain. Peter stopped, but the wind urged him on.

  The walls of the mine radiated heat around him. Flame flickered on the edges of his sight. Deeper and deeper into the mine he went. The air was almost unbreathable. But where Peter walked, ice crackled in his footsteps, and it clung to the walls when he reached out to steady himself.

  After a while, he reached the bottom of the mine and the cave there. Flames licked up the walls. Rubies shone in the shadows, full of fire and embedded in silence.

  “I’ve brought you the sky,” Peter said out loud. There was no answer, but the darkness around him seemed to become even more silent. Something was listening, he knew it.

  “The sky,” he repeated. The shadows rustled.

  “The sky?” whispered a voice. The shadows crept closer. He was not certain, but he thought there were shapes in the shadows, many of them. Eyes staring at him.

  “What is the sky to us?” There was hunger in the voice. “We are here, it is there, and everything we are not lies between.”

  “True,” said Peter, ice cracking in his throat, “but I’ve brought a piece to you. A gem of the sky, clearer than a diamond.”

  “Show us. Show us now.”

  Peter removed the gem from his coat. It shone in the light of the flames with a flashing radiance that threw stars out twinkling into the darkness. Despite the heat of that place, the ice did not melt. Not a single drop of water fell, such was the cold of Peter’s body.

  “Ahh,” breathed the voice. “We want it. We want it forever. Give it to us.” Hands reached out of the shadows.

  “Not just yet,” said Peter. “Fair’s fair. How can I give you such a jewel without something equal in return?”

  The shadows trembled in agitation. “Rubies. Your weight in rubies.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps the memory of fire? It will keep your dreams warm. No? Would you prefer iron’s strength? Your bones will never break, and your heart will never fail.”

  “No.”

  The shadows crept closer. “The secrets of a thousand years, plucked from the dust of dead men’s bones, grain by grain? No, obviously not.” The voice paused, faltered, and then strengthened. “We have a girl. A princess, no less. We filled her with fire and gave her a flame for a heart.”

  “I don’t care so much about princesses,” said Peter carelessly. “But a girl—now, that might be something.”

  “Oh, the best of girls,” said the voice eagerly. “Her touch can melt stone. Her lips can—”

  “No doubt,” said Peter. He turned the ice gem over and over in his hands. Light danced through the darkness at its movement. The shadows trembled.

  “We shall bring her,” said the voice.

  Stone grated on stone, and Peter caught a glimpse of a vast, awful space looming away, deeper and deeper, down into nothingness. The very roots of the mountain, lost in darkness. A flame moved there, coming closer. A girl. Matilda. She stood among the shadows. Fire burned in her eyes and slid along the lines of her form. She opened her mouth to speak. He could see his name on her tongue.

  “I suppose she’ll do,” he said, and she shut her mouth.

  “Give the sky to us,” said the voice. “Give us the jewel. Now!” The shadows snatched the enormous gem of ice out of Peter’s grasp.

  Peter took Matilda’s hand. Flame licked up his arm. For a moment, he thought he felt warmth in his fingers, but then it was gone. The deathly coldness of his body was inviolate.

  “Come,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Before it melts.”

  They fled from there, up and up through the darkness. Ice and fire snapped and guttered behind them. They came to the mouth of the mine. Snowflakes blew in with a rush of wind. There was no sun, only a blinding white sky full of falling snow. Her fingers tightened on his. The snow hissed and steamed under her feet. The falling snow melted into rain around her.

  Behind them, the mountain suddenly quaked with fury. Snow and stone crashed down from its steep slopes. The entrance to the mine collapsed in an avalanche of rock. On the wind, they heard moaning and wailing and the dim, distant fury of shadows. But then there was only silence.

  Peter and Matilda came to the castle. The ice in the moat cracked and melted at Matilda’s passing. It froze again as Peter walked by, for he followed close on her heels. The door scorched under her hand. Inside the hall, a page sat polishing boots before the hearth. He gaped at them. The fire leapt up as Matilda approached.

  “Find my father, the King,” said Matilda. The page scrambled to his feet and fled.

  The King and Queen came in a fluster, beaming from ear to ear. The King swept Matilda up in his arms and then sprang back. Sparks smoldered in his beard.

  “What’s this?” he cried. “Water! Buckets! Quick! The castle’s on fire!”

  “Not at all,” said Matilda. “I’m afraid whatever I touch becomes rather hot. I suppose I could become a cook and simply stick my hand in the soup to boil it. I do hope that ruby was worth it, Father.”

  “Nonsense,” said the King.

  “Oh, my dear,” said the Queen, looking as if she was about to faint.

  “I’m delighted you’re back, Matilda,” said the King. “I was about to call the army up, take the mine by force and, er, well, do something. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”

  But it didn’t end well, at least, not in the castle. Matilda looked about for Peter, but he had slipped out the door and was gone. She went to bed, for she found she had little to say to her parents. Besides, when she did speak, flames occasionally fell out of her mouth. This seemed to make her parents nervous.

  Matilda did not get much sleep. Neither did any of the servants. Her bed kept catching on fire, as did the dresser and the other furniture in the room. The servants stood outside her door with buckets of water. Whenever smoke seeped out into the hall, the chamberlain would knock and then usher in a bucket brigade. Of course, they all kept their faces politely averted, as it wouldn’t do to see the Princess in her nightgown.

  Most of the castle was in a bad mood by the time morning came. At breakfast, the King complained of smoke inhalation, the Queen fell asleep in her porridge, and Matilda set the table on fire. The pages yawned on their feet and the chamberlain was nowhere to be found.

  “I think I’ll have a chat with the cook,” said Matilda, getting out of her smoldering chair.

  “Don’t set her on fire,” grumbled the King.

  The cook was baking bread in the kitchen.

  “Here,” she said, handing Matilda a pan full of bread dough. She watched in interest as the dough quickly baked in the girl’s hands.

  “Useful,” said the cook, “but not very practical.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Matilda. A tear slid down her cheek and boiled away into steam.

  “I think what you need is a walk in the garden.” The cook sighed and nodded, and then tried to smile. “Make sure you don’t set the apple trees on fire. Here, take this.”

  She handed the Princess a leather knapsack. The leather started to smolder.

  “Give me a kiss, girl,” said the cook. “No, no, I don’t mind a scorch or two. Heaven knows I’m always getting burned by the stove. Now, run along.”

  Matilda wandered out into the garden behind the castle. Snow lay heavy on the ground. The apple trees stood frozen in skeletal outline. But there was something else standing among the apple trees. Peter. He looked up as she approached.

  “Oh, hello. I think I must’ve fallen asleep.” He smiled and the ice sheathing his face cracked. His skin was blue and he looked as if h
e had been carved out of stone.

  She took his hand in hers. The dreadful cold in his fingers receded a little. The flames licking over her hand retreated up her arm. For a moment, Peter thought his heart warmed enough to thud one slow beat. They stared at each other.

  “Here,” said Matilda, handing him the knapsack. “You’d better take this before it catches on fire. Cook packed it full of bread and cheese. And sausage, of course.”

  Peter slung the knapsack over his shoulder. Then, without a word, they set out. They went north, over the mountains and past the great frozen sea. They were never seen again in the kingdom of Lune. It was said they finally came to a land of perpetual snow. There, Peter built Matilda a house of ice. She had no fear of burning such a place down. Her fire lent warmth to him. And in the spring, his heart began to beat again. But whether due to the flame of her touch or simply her love, no one knows.

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