Everdark

by Abi Elphinstone

  Smudge blinked at the beauty of the scene before her. The moon was up and the surface of the ocean was aglow with tiny blue lights belonging to the millions of plankton that swayed with the current and shone like scattered stars. Cutting a sharp silhouette against the sea of lights was a row of jagged rocks, twenty or so metres in length – in the unmistakable shape of a crown – and carved into the central rock there was a cave, lit green by glow-worm light, which shone out against the night like a jewel.

  ‘Do you think this is it?’ Smudge whispered. ‘The Fallen Crown – the way through to Everdark?’

  There was a clanking noise from the hull of The Coddiwomple.

  ‘Is this the first time she’s made that noise on this voyage or the second?’ Nefarious asked.

  ‘Second,’ Smudge said, recalling the same strange sound after the dragonhide sail had changed before the Northswirl and the lantern had glowed blue at the bow.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  Bartholomew bit his tail. ‘What does it mean? More whirlpools? Another fanged wave?’

  ‘It means The Coddiwomple has already released its supply of merscales – most probably because you were being tailed by some deeply unfriendly sea monster – and now—’

  The clanking sound faded, then there was a cracking noise, like that of wood splitting, as dozens of metal spikes burst through the wooden railings surrounding the boat.

  Nefarious eyed his ship. ‘We need to keep our wits about us. The Coddiwomple has cranked up its danger levels. We’re now on High Alert.’

  Bartholomew shivered. ‘What’s after High Alert?’

  Nefarious looked him straight in the eye. ‘Nothing. This is as dangerous as it gets.’

  Smudge’s heart fluttered with fear.

  ‘We need to think this through,’ Bartholomew said. ‘We are poised before a cave that looks very much like it might be a gateway to Everdark, the most magical of places in all the Unmapped Kingdoms. So we should come up with a plan for what happens when we step through that cave and possibly find ourselves face to face with Morg.’

  But The Coddiwomple didn’t seem to care for forward planning and it lurched ahead, almost as if it was in a hurry, and, no matter how much Bartholomew, Smudge and Nefarious pulled on the sail ropes to try and slow it down, the boat charged on through the sea. And so focused were they all on watching the rocks ahead and working out whether they could get close enough to moor the boat and step ashore that none of them looked down to where the real danger lay.

  Because where there are gateways to impossibly enchanted places there are usually gatekeepers, too. And this one had risen from the depths of the ocean at moonrise – no longer stunned by the merscales The Coddiwomple had released before the Northswirl.

  The ogre eel sank beneath the boat, waiting for the right moment to pounce, and all the while The Coddiwomple threw everything it had at getting close to the glowing cave. But, no matter how many times it advanced, the waves grew, the current churned and they were spat right back to where they started.

  ‘Let’s try going round the side!’ Nefarious shouted. ‘Then we’ll cut back in!’

  And it was then that the ogre eel struck.

  It burst out of the water, barring the way to the Fallen Crown, and everyone screamed at once as it sprayed foam and slime over the boat. Bartholomew gripped Smudge’s waist as Nefarious yanked on the sail rope and manoeuvred The Coddiwomple backwards. The eel was vast, with flickering gills, a forked tongue and purple skin. And had it not been for the spikes that now lined the boat it would have thumped down and drowned them all that instant. For now, though, it lunged towards the mast, snapping it clean off and hurling the sail into the sea.

  But, to the eel’s irritation, the boat spun recklessly on towards the Fallen Crown, and Smudge, Bartholomew and Nefarious clung to the sides as it shunted into the rocks. There was a thud against the hull, then the sound of water pouring in.

  ‘Jump now!’ Nefarious yelled as the eel rose up again and shook its terrible gills. ‘Before it’s too late!’

  Smudge clambered over the bow with Bartholomew, then they leaped on to the rocks and hoisted themselves away from the waves. But, just as Nefarious was readying to jump after them, an enormous wave smashed against the boat and dragged it backwards. Nefarious stumbled against a bench and the eel gathered itself up to its full height and hissed.

  ‘Watch out!’ Smudge screamed.

  But, if there was one thing Nefarious was good at, it was fighting enraged sea monsters. He drew his arm back and hurled his merscale boomerang straight at the ogre eel. In a shimmer of scales, the weapon flew through the air and, though the monster swerved, the boomerang circled back to Nefarious and he hurled it again. This time the weapon caught the eel square in the face and, as the scales struck, the creature seized up, stunned. But it was too late. With no mast or sail, Nefarious couldn’t move his boat and Smudge and Bartholomew watched, aghast, as the stupefied ogre eel thumped down on to The Coddiwomple, dragging it and Nefarious down into the sea.

  ‘No!’ Smudge yelled from the rocks. ‘Nefarious!’

  She scanned the water, but only a few pieces of broken wood lay strewn across the surface. And then . . .

  ‘There!’ Smudge cried. ‘Look!’

  Nefarious burst through the water, coughing and spluttering, but he was alive. Very much alive. And there was something else, too: another boat in the distance sailing towards them. A large ship with a very round elf at the bow.

  ‘Dragonclaw?’ Smudge whispered. ‘And – and is that Crumpet? But it can’t be . . . She was under Morg’s curse – I watched it happen!’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘And yet it is Crumpet.’

  ‘Keep going, Smudge!’ Crumpet roared as Dragonclaw drew closer. ‘The only reason this kingdom is still standing is because of you! And the only reason I broke free from the Nightdagger curse is because the rock goblins piled aboard Dragonclaw and whispered your name into my ear so many times that the hope bound up inside them – their belief in you – was enough to break the dark magic over me.’

  Smudge took in the shadows of the other elves, lit up by the ship’s lantern, still huddled round the warning bell.

  ‘Their hope in you was enough to stir me, but the goblins couldn’t wake the rest of the elves!’ Crumpet shouted. ‘When I asked Dragonclaw’s mind map how to get to Everdark to stop the dark magic that rose from there it told me only one Unmapper could go: the girl who sailed beyond the Northswirl and lived. Smudge, I think you’re destined to do something extraordinary tonight! I followed you here to help give you the courage to keep going but I see now that you don’t need me to do that – at whatever cost you will always go on!’ She peered over the edge of the bow and gasped. ‘Is . . . is that Nefarious Flood?’

  The swell shunted Nefarious further and further away from the Fallen Crown and towards Dragonclaw.

  ‘Crumpet’s right!’ Nefarious panted. ‘Keep going, Smudge. And you, too, Bartholomew! Dragonclaw will take me from here – and Crumpet and I can scour the books in the Warren to see if there’s a way to wake the other Lofty Husks and preserve what’s left of the phoenix’s magic until a new one rises – but that light in the cave is dimming! I don’t think you have long before it closes!’

  Smudge glanced at the cave behind her. If the gateway was closing, did that mean she’d be stuck in Everdark forever? Her heart shook at the thought. Or were there more gateways and journeys ahead? Was that what it meant to be an explorer, as Nefarious had said – that she was destined for voyages to far-flung places and adventures at the edges of the world? Smudge steeled herself as she looked at Nefarious. She had to be brave enough to go on without him, whatever lay ahead, because the fate of the Unmapped Kingdoms and the Faraway lay in her hands.

  ‘This is your voyage now!’ Nefarious shouted as another wave rammed him further from the rocks. ‘Seize it with both hands!’

  ‘I’ll try!’ Smudge cried. ‘And thank you, Nefarious! I won’t ever forget you! O
r you, Crumpet!’

  ‘I’ll try my best to forget you, Nefarious,’ Bartholomew wheezed as he scrambled over the rocks after Smudge, ‘but I fear our harrowing encounter will remain seared on my brain forever.’

  He gave Nefarious and Crumpet a shaky wave, then he followed Smudge into the cave as the light from the glow-worms closed in around them.

  Smudge wasn’t sure when the cave stopped being a cave and became a forest, but, as she and Bartholomew walked further inside it, it became clear that the way back no longer existed. Gone were the dripping walls of rock, gone was the sound of roaring waves and gone was the sight of Dragonclaw rushing to Nefarious’ rescue. Only shadows and trees remained, and the near-silent heartbeat of a place rarely visited.

  Smudge tried to hold her fear at bay. But Morg was somewhere in here, brewing a curse to kill her. Smudge swallowed. She had seen trees back on Littlefern and Wildhorn – great jungled vines and arching palm trees – but they were nothing compared to the forest she stood in now. There was night beyond the trees somewhere – every now and again, Smudge caught a glimpse of the stars – but the forest was so deep and tangled that more often than not the way ahead and above and behind was completely masked by roots and creepers.

  There were no birds, butterflies or buds, like perhaps there had been in the reign of the last phoenix. In fact, there was nothing living at all. This was a rotten forest. Fungus clung to the trunks and insects wove holes through decaying bark. Smudge drew the bow out of her quiver and, trying to remember exactly what Nefarious had told her, slotted an arrow in place. But thankfully, as she and Bartholomew walked on, nothing stirred between the trees.

  ‘Look at this one,’ Bartholomew whispered shakily. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

  The tree to his left was bent right over, like an old man, and hanging from the branches were rusty keys.

  ‘And that one ahead,’ Smudge pointed.

  It was hollow in the centre and many of the branches were now stumps, but from the few that remained there hung a collection of broken mirrors.

  ‘I can feel the magic of this place,’ Smudge breathed, ‘but there’s something sad about it – as if it’s been left to go to waste. And if we don’t stop Morg she’ll do the same thing to Crackledawn . . .’

  There were more trees beyond these – ones that grew candles and coins and jewels – but every single one was dying. Smudge and Bartholomew crept further in and the hush deepened as they came upon a clearing. The trees surrounding it were dark and twisted, and one had a trunk so wide it contained a handful of doors carved into its bark, but it was the tree at the far end of the clearing, the one whose trunk was surrounded by dead birds and clumps of fungi, that made Smudge stiffen. Because where the branches split on this particular tree there was a nest.

  The hairs on the back of Smudge’s neck bristled. Everyone knew that phoenix nests were made from twigs and sun-beams, but this one was an enormous tangle of cobwebs and bones. And rising up from deep inside it was a strange green smoke.

  Bartholomew clutched Smudge’s arm as he took in the tips of the black feathers poking over the edge of the nest.

  Smudge gulped. This was Morg’s nest and it looked like she was home.

  Bartholomew took a nervous step backwards, but Smudge forced herself to stay where she was. Crumpet and Nefarious were relying on her and she needed to come up with a plan. She slid a glance to the tree with the doors. Some were rectangular, some domed and some small and circular, but each one bore an inscription on the front:

  TO FORGOTTEN DREAMS

  TO FARAWAY STARS

  TO PEACE AND QUIET

  TO FINAL ENDINGS

  And it was this door, with the dusty knocker and the chains draped over it, that Smudge was thinking about as she gripped her bow. Because, if she could pin Morg’s feathers down in the nest – a considerable task considering she’d never fired a bow and arrow before – then maybe she’d be in with a chance of scrambling up the tree, stealing the harpy’s wings and shutting them inside a door which very much implied that what went in would not be let out. Then, perhaps, Morg’s power would crumble and a new phoenix would rise.

  Her heart juddering at the scale of the task before her, Smudge tiptoed towards the harpy’s lair and pulled back on her bow. She tried to ignore the sweat tingling in her palms and Bartholomew wincing behind her. Then she closed one eye, aimed and – with surprising accuracy – sent her arrow thwunking into the feathers.

  A crow wing tumbled out of the nest and fell uselessly to the ground. Smudge frowned. Against the odds, she’d hit her target and yet . . .

  A sickening laugh rang out through the trees and two huge wings descended from another branch entirely, closing round Smudge like midnight. Smudge’s scream died in her throat. The crow’s wing had been a trap to lure her in while Morg watched, and waited, in the branches above.

  ‘Get away from me!’ Smudge cried as she thrashed her arms against the harpy’s feathers.

  But Morg’s wings simply tightened round her, crunching her arrows into splinters of wood and making it impossible for Smudge to raise her bow to her chin. Smudge gasped as she felt the breath of the harpy on her neck and she realised that Nefarious’ weapon was now utterly useless. She and Bartholomew had got this far – into the heart of Everdark and right up to Morg’s nest – only to end up as the harpy’s prisoners.

  Smudge’s thoughts spun wildly. What would happen if Morg dragged her up to her nest? How long would it take before the dark magic weaselled its way into Smudge’s body? And how soon after that would the Unmapped Kingdoms crumble? Her heart shook at the thought of all the silver whales, sea dragons, rock goblins and Unmappers that would be no more. And all those continents in the Faraway that would perish.

  ‘You dared to follow me into Everdark,’ Morg hissed. ‘You dared to think that you, a child, could defeat me?’

  Smudge kicked out, but Morg held fast, locking her in a terrifying embrace as she dug her phoenix skull into Smudge’s shoulder.

  ‘I was planning to bring my curse to you,’ Morg hissed, ‘but, now that you are so conveniently in Everdark, I can simply drag you up to my nest where the darkest magic is brewing.’ She laughed. ‘Nestled inside those cobwebs and bones lies a spell made from a thousand nightmares and once it slips down your throat your pointless little life will be snuffed out like a candle. Gone. Forever.’

  Morg wrapped a cold hand round Smudge’s neck and, at the touch of those fingers, Smudge felt the hopes she’d carried with her all the way from Wildhorn drain from her chest. She cowered in Morg’s grip, her eyes shining with terror, because there didn’t seem room for curiosity, courage and self-belief now. All that felt useless in the face of such evil. Smudge gasped as the harpy readied herself to fly up to the nest. This was the end of her voyage and she was so alone and afraid that her spirit shook.

  And that was when the white-nosed monkey started shouting.

  ‘You’re not alone, Smudge!’ Bartholomew cried. ‘I am your friend and I will not let you die!’

  The monkey’s voice sounded distant and faint, but the harpy’s hold on Smudge’s neck loosened for a moment.

  ‘I told you the elves enchanted me with a voice and feelings!’ Bartholomew bellowed. ‘But I lied. They only gave me a voice. All the feelings – all the loyalty – grew because I have grown to understand that you are a brave and wonderful friend!’

  The harpy growled, but still Bartholomew shouted and little by little his words kindled strength in Smudge’s soul. When the monkey had held her hands in the Northswirl while The Coddiwomple sank, she had thought he was being kind because the elves had entrusted him with loyalty. But now he was telling her that they had done no such thing. Smudge had given up hope of making friends, but slowly, quietly, a friendship had been growing. And what a friend the white-nosed monkey was: all he had wanted was to retire and live a safe, ordinary life, but instead he had followed her beyond the Northswirl and all the way to Everdark!


  ‘I will never leave you, Smudge!’ Bartholomew shouted. ‘The same way Nefarious, Crumpet and all those goblins will never stop having faith in you! So don’t give up now! Keep believing in the what ifs and the just maybes of this world. Because your spirit is bold – it revels in possibility – and that makes you infinitely powerful!’

  And though the magic of the harpy was great it seemed now that the magic of friendship – of unexpected loyalty and courage against the odds – was greater still.

  Smudge threw all her strength at Morg at the same time as Bartholomew threw all of his. And, as Smudge bit and tore and punched, the creature jerked sideways and a gap opened up in her wings.

  Smudge seized her chance and charged through the gap in the harpy’s wings only to see Bartholomew launching himself at Morg, teeth bared, claws splayed.

  ‘Get away, pest!’ Morg screeched.

  But no matter how many times the harpy went to bat the monkey away he kept on coming back. Morg sprang into the air and for a second Smudge thought they had won, but then she realised the harpy was cackling to herself as she rose higher and higher in the sky.

  ‘She’s getting ready to dive!’ Smudge cried. ‘So that she can drag me up to her nest!’

  Smudge tried to think clearly and an idea began to take shape in her head. She reached inside her pocket, hurled the little jar she had taken from The Coddiwomple at Bartholomew and ran towards the nearest tree.

  Bartholomew caught the jar and turned it over in his hands. ‘You want me to catch Morg in a gloomweb? I thought recent events at Lonecrag showed us that nets and the like are a no go with harpies!’

  ‘Stay there!’ Smudge hissed. ‘And . . . and carry on being loyal!’

  There was no time to explain the gloomweb – Bartholomew would have to figure it out – because Morg was rising up, up, up and Smudge knew that she couldn’t afford to let her dive until she was ready.

  Smudge scrambled up the branches of the tree, two at time, flinching as she passed the green smoke fizzing from the harpy’s nest. The forest rang with Morg’s cries as she flew higher, and Smudge stumbled and slipped on the rotten wood, but she kept climbing. She hauled herself through the branches, past long-forgotten birds’ nests and the stumps of dead branches, ignoring the stitch in her side and the thud of her heart. On and on she climbed until, finally, Smudge stood on the topmost branch of the tree.