Blue Fire and Ice

by Alan Skinner

  ‘There is only one thing for it,’ he decided. ‘Go to the pub and have something to eat and think about it with a full stomach.’ His stomach rumbled its agreement and Brian walked on, satisfied he had a plan.

  Pleased with himself, he concentrated on enjoying the beautiful day. In fact, he was enjoying it so much that he forgot to look where he was going and walked straight into a pirate.

  It is not often that one knocks over a pirate, especially on the highway and many miles from the sea. It was hard to tell who was more surprised: Brian or the pirate, who lay stretched out on the hard road at Brian’s feet. The fall had knocked the pirate’s hat down over his face and he lay very still. Brian was worried.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he apologised. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Bwii ah ells!’ came a voice from under the hat. The pirate sounded in great pain – or was very angry.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Brian, ‘I don’t understand.’ The pirate had obviously come from somewhere far, far away.

  ‘‘Eahhr utt izz,’ said the voice under the hat again, then added, ‘‘Aah wundrrud ear ahh pu ut.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Brian. ‘Look, just stay there, and I’ll get help.’ By now, he was anxious to get away, lest the pirate jump up and take him prisoner. Everyone knew that pirates carried their prisoners away to sea and made them row their pirate ships for seventeen years before abandoning them on a deserted island.

  Brian was just about to make a run for it when the pirate reached up and lifted the hat from his face. The face smiled at Brian as the pirate’s hand disappeared into the hat and came back out holding a piece of paper.

  ‘By the bells, ’ere it is!’ said the pirate. ‘I wondered where I’d put it!’ He held up the piece of paper for Brian to see. ‘Been a-looking four years fer this.’ He stood, gave a little bow and patted Brian on the shoulder. ‘Very grateful to ya, me lad.’

  Brian couldn’t see what was on the paper, which looked very old and yellow. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘What is it? What is it, ya say!’ repeated the pirate. ‘It’s me treasure map, laddie! Not just any treasure map, mind. The finest treasure map in the world, ta show the way ta the richest treasure in the world!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Brian, thinking that it was very careless to lose such a thing.

  ‘I know what yer a-thinkin’, me bucko. Yer a-thinkin’ that it was very careless, like, to ferget where I hid this ’ere map,’ said the pirate with a cunning glint in his eye.

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ lied Brian. He didn’t like lying but he thought it wiser not to upset the pirate.

  ‘Ah, well, I didn’t need to remember, cos I’d made a map to show meself wheres I hid it!’ the pirate exclaimed proudly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Brian. ‘And … you … lost … that … map, too?’

  ‘No, me hearty. Dropped it in the bath and the ink ran, like.’ He thought for a second, remembering, then sighed. ‘Spent a whole month a-searchin’ the swamp for me treasure map.’

  Brian’s mouth went round. ‘Oh -’

  ‘Please, swabbie,’ interrupted the pirate. ‘Don’t say “Oh”. ’Tain’t polite.’

  Brian closed his mouth, then started again. ‘Now that you have your map, I suppose you’ll board your ship and sail away to find the treasure.’ Brian still wanted the pirate to just go away and leave him. He didn’t want to be taken aboard the pirate ship. Ever since he could remember, he wanted to be a Factotum. He couldn’t ever remember wanting to row a pirate ship.

  ‘Can’t,’ said the pirate. ‘Ain’t got a ship.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ said Brian, puzzled. ‘How do you sail the seas, then?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said the pirate. ‘Ain’t never been ta sea. I don’t like the water.’

  ‘Then why are you a pirate?’ asked Brian, thinking this was not at all what he expected from a pirate but at least he wouldn’t be rowing a pirate ship.

  ‘Cos I am,’ said the pirate simply. ‘Alwus ’ave been.’

  It all became clear to Brian. ‘You’re a Muddle, aren’t you?’ he said politely.

  ‘Course,’ said the pirate. ‘Wot else’d I be?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Brian, feeling a little foolish at being afraid of a Muddle. No one was afraid of a Muddle. ‘Well, now that you’re OK and you have your map, I have to go. I have a very important job to do.’

  ‘Don’t weese all, matey.’ The pirate tucked his map into his vest pocket and put on his hat. ‘’S been a real pleasure to make yer acquaintance …’

  ‘Brian,’ said Brian quickly.

  ‘Brian.’ The pirate nodded as if he’d known Brian’s name all along. ‘Pleased ta know ya, Brian, me old shipmate. Me name is Patch.’

  ‘Patch?’ Brian looked at the pirate. Both eyes seemed to be there and in working order. ‘Is that because you sometimes squint and wear a patch on one eye?’

  ‘No,’ said Patch.

  ‘Then why do they call you Patch?’ asked Brian.

  Patch looked puzzled. ‘Cos it’s me name,’ he said.

  Brian couldn’t help himself. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘You know,’ said Patch, ‘I thinks I’ll walk with ya. Where’re ya headed?’

  Brian’s heart dropped into a pit that had suddenly opened in his stomach. ‘Home,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘By the bells!’ exclaimed Patch. ‘Home! Of all the places. I’d be pleased to show ya the way, like.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Patch, but I think I can find my way. This road only goes to Home.’

  ‘So it do, so it do! Clever of ya to notice that, like. But youse Beadles are clever people. Not as clever as them Myrmidots, mind, but clever enough, like.’ Patch clapped Brian on the shoulder. ‘An’ I can tell ya tales of pirates and buccaneers on the ocean, sailing the high seas wherever their fancy took ’em. I can tell ya tales of storms and hurricanes, of gigantic sea beasts and faraway lands that drip gold, and silver, and precious gems the size of yer fist.’

  ‘But you said you’ve never been to sea. If you’ve never been to sea, how can you have stories to tell of sailing the seas?’

  Patch looked at Brian in surprise. ‘What a question! By the bells! Where’d weese be if weese only had stories of things weese’d actually done, like?’

  Brian couldn’t think of an answer to that. He was stuck, and he knew it. He sighed. It would be a long hour to Home.

  ‘There was this one time, like, when weese was in the Northern Oceans. Now, them Northern Oceans is the most dangerous of all the oceans. Waves so ’igh they wash away ’ole countries when they crash on the shore. An’ that’s when the b’rometer’s up, mind. When the glass drops and the weather rises, there’s no more unpleasant place in this world.’

  Brian wasn’t too sure of that but he felt it was better not to say so.

  ‘There weese were,’ Patch continued, ‘skippin’ over these mountain waves. The ship would ride ta the top o’ each wave, then slide down the other side, like them young people with their boards down on the beach. It was all peaceful, like, when, without warning, weese were hit by a ferocious tycoon.’

  ‘Typhoon,’ Brian corrected Patch.

  ‘Ah, no, me salty dog, ’twas definitely a tycoon. Rich as the King of the Pearls ’e was but he couldn’t steer a boat fer love nur money, and ’e was in a very bad mood.’ Patch laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  Brian’s heart fell all the way to his shoes. It definitely was going to be a long walk.

  Patch continued to tell his stories as they walked. He told Brian of an island where dragons still roamed. It had been a rich land, crowded with the tallest trees and tastiest grass, with every kind of animal one could imagine. It had water so pure that it sparkled like diamonds, sparkled so brightly that animals had to close their eyes when they lowered their heads to drink. And the dragons had come and scorched the earth with their fire and had feasted on the animals. The island was so bountiful that it was hundreds of years before the dragons had consumed e
verything on the island. Their greed had made them lazy and they didn’t bother to fly during those years when they laid waste to the island. And when every animal had been consumed and every plant burned so that even the sparkling water was dull and smelled of the sulphur from the dragons’ fire, the dragons found that they had forgotten how to fly. So, because of their greed and ignorance, their wings gradually disappeared and they were condemned to live on that barren island for all time, finding whatever food they could in the sea.

  The pirate told Brian of birds that soared in the air for months without ever touching land and which were so light that they sailed higher than eagles on the slightest breath of wind. He had stories of sea creatures that would come to the aid of ships that were sinking in a storm. The sea creatures would hold the ships on their backs above the waves until the seas were calm once again, and then the creatures would silently disappear beneath the waves. Patch told tales of peaches the colour of wine, with nectar so sweet that one bite would keep away thirst even in the hottest desert.

  A short distance from Home, they came to a small bridge that spanned a narrow stream. It was a typical Muddle bridge, a simple arch with small walls on either side, made of red brick with an open timber roof. The roof was painted a reddish brown, the same colour as a newly ripened coffee bean. Muddles are very fond of their bridges and, when it rains, they often sit on the wall of the bridge, their feet dangling over the water, and watch the raindrops make circles in the stream running under their feet.

  Halfway across the bridge Patch’s tale was interrupted by a yell, and then a splash. Brian and Patch ran to the side of the bridge and peered over.

  Slight sat in the middle of the stream. ‘’Ello, Slight. Performin’ for the fish?’ said Patch. He didn’t seem to think it was at all odd that there was a magician sitting in the middle of the stream, the water flowing around his waist.

  Slight was Muddlemarsh’s magician. He wore an elegant black dinner suit with long, pointed tails, a white shirt with ruffles and a bow tie. He performed magic tricks, or at least tried to, for none of them ever seemed to work properly. He had ruined a great many watches wrapping them in a handkerchief and smashing them with a hammer and was disappointed each time to find the watch in tiny pieces. Yet all the Muddles still happily gave him their watches when he asked, for they thought he was a fine magician who practised very hard. They had all agreed, though, not to volunteer when he wanted to perform the trick of sawing someone in half.

  ‘Hello, Patch,’ said Slight. He spoke with a great deal more good humour than Brian thought he would if he had just fallen in the stream. ‘I was just practising a new trick I thought of and fell in. I was trying to catch a fish for the trick.’

  ‘A new trick, eh? That’d be something ta see.’ Patch turned to Brian. ‘Ain’t never seen a new trick before. I mean, brand new, one just been thought up, like. That’d be worth seein’.’ He called down to Slight.

  ‘So, what’s this trick do, then, Slight? Does ya make the water run o’er the bridge ’stead of under? Does ya sit in the water without gettin’ wet?’

  ‘That’d be a good one to do, Patch. I should have thought about that one before I tried to catch a fish.’

  Brian couldn’t see a fishing pole anywhere. ‘Did you drop your pole in the water?’ he asked.

  ‘Pole? Fishing pole? Oh, goodness, no!’ replied Slight. ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt the fish! Besides, a happy fish learns tricks much quicker. No, I was trying to catch one with my hands.’

  ‘Should’ve asked Leaf to do it for ya, Slight. Leaf’s a scout,’ said Patch. He thought a second. ‘No, Leaf don’t like gettin’ ’er ’ands dirty. Don’t think she’d like holdin’ a fish, like.’

  Brian didn’t bother asking why a scout wouldn’t like getting her hands dirty, or catching fish. He knew enough about Muddles to know it was hopeless to try to understand them. Instead, he asked Slight, ‘What’s the new trick? How does it work?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. It’s against the Rules, even for tricks you can’t do. But I can show you.’

  Brian was a Beadle and he knew all about Rules. For Beadles, the first rule about all rules was that Nothing Was A Rule Unless It was Right. The Proof That A Rule Was Right Is That It Is A Rule. He peered over the roof of the bridge so he could see the sun. It wasn’t quite directly overhead but he would have to hurry to get to Home in time to complete his mission and get the bus back.

  ‘I would love to see your new trick, but I really must go.’ An idea came to him and he said, ‘But you stay, Patch. I’m sure you want to see Slight’s trick.’ He looked at Slight, who was still sitting in the middle of the stream. ‘Perhaps you can show me another time. When you have it right.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t wait that long, if I were you,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘Are you sure you have to hurry? It would be good to practise in front of an audience.’ Slight frowned. ‘I’m not sure you can call one person an audience …’

  ‘’E’s got ta get ta Home. Ta see somebody. ’E’s on an important mission. Oo’s in charge of Important Missions, then, Slight?’

  ‘That’d be whoever’s Town Leader this week. Let me think. Whose turn is it?’ Patch and Slight considered the question.

  ‘I do thinks it’d be Wave,’ declared Patch. ‘Yup, I’se sure ’tis Wave.’

  ‘Why, there you go!’ said Slight. ‘There isn’t any hurry. Wave isn’t there! You can’t see him! I met him this morning with Reach. They went up to the woods to find truffles. They won’t be back until this afternoon.’

  Brian was dismayed. Back in Beadleburg, the Mayor was always available from 9.30 in the morning until 6.30 at night, except between one o’clock and two o’clock when he went to Brew’s Coffee and Ale House for lunch.

  ‘I guess I shall just have to see the fire officer directly,’ he said.

  ‘Crimson! She’s Home’s fire officer. She’s the one ya ’ave ta see,’ said Patch.

  ‘Thank you. I shall get off and see her now,’ Brian said.

  ‘Can’t,’ said Patch. ‘Every day ’tween eleven and one o’clock, she is at ’er studies. Never misses. Studyin’ ’orta … ’ortee … ’orteek … flowers.’

  Crestfallen, Brian began to feel that everything was against him and that he would fail his mission.

  Patch slapped him on the shoulder. ‘So, yer ’ave time to stay and see Slight’s new trick. No ’urry now,’ he said happily. Brian felt glum but decided that he may as well stay. And to tell the truth, he really did want to see the new magic trick.

  Slight was still sitting in the stream. He was staring intently at the water in front of him.

  ‘So,’ said Patch, ‘what’s ya trick, then, Slight? Do weese needs ta find a fish fer ya?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Slight, not taking his eyes from the water in front of him. ‘There’s one just here. The one I had before I fell in.’

  In the clear stream, Brian and Patch could see the small fish in the water between Slight’s legs. The fish stayed still, looking at Slight, its small fins waving gently to keep it from moving downstream with the current. It seemed to be waiting for Slight.

  ‘Catfish,’ said Patch. ‘That’s good, Slight. Catfish are smarter’n dogfish. It’ll learns the trick quicker.’

  Slight’s two hands darted into the water and came out holding the catfish, which stayed perfectly still in his hands.

  ‘Got it!’ cried Slight.

  The catfish gave a sharp wriggle and slipped out of the magician’s hands. It splashed into the water, swam slowly in a circle, came back between Slight’s legs, and stayed there.

  ‘That’s a good trick, Slight!’ said Patch enthusiastically. ‘Ain’t never seen that one a-fore!’

  ‘That’s not the trick, Patch,’ said Slight. He looked at the waiting fish.

  ‘What is the trick, Slight?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Slight and his hands darted into the water. Once again, they came out holding the catfish. The catfi
sh didn’t wriggle this time and just stayed still in Slight’s hands, looking at him.

  Slight stood and walked to the bank, dripping water from the points of the long tails at the back of his suit. He walked to where a large handkerchief covered a round shape on the ground.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said to the fish. The fish stared at Slight, waiting. Slight reached down. Careful not to drop the fish, with the tips of his fingers he pulled the handkerchief off the shape to reveal a large, round bowl, half filled with water. He slid the fish into the bowl. The catfish quickly swam around the bowl, stopped, stared briefly at Slight, then swam around again.

  Slight looked happily at Brian and Patch, who were still leaning on the wall of the bridge.

  ‘Is that the trick?’ asked Patch. ‘Is it a performin’ fish, then, Slight?’

  ‘No,’ replied Slight. ‘See this bowl?’

  Patch and Brian nodded.

  ‘See this fish?’

  Patch and Brian nodded.

  ‘I am going to say a magic spell and make the fish in the bowl magically disappear and then reappear in the stream again!’ Slight declared grandly. The fish stopped and stared at Slight.

  ‘Just the fish? Or the bowl, too?’ asked Patch.

  Slight looked a bit confused for a moment. ‘Just the fish. I haven’t been studying bowls.’

  Patch nodded. ‘It’ll be worth seein’ at any rate. Takes yer time, Slight. Weese ain’t goin’ anywheres.’ He smiled at Slight, then smiled at Brian. Brian stared at Patch, the fish stared at Slight and Slight slowly lowered the large handkerchief over the bowl.

  He then reached into his pocket and drew out a small wand, the size of a pencil. He waved the wand in the air and gave his hand a sharp shake and the wand instantly grew to full size. Unfortunately, it grew backwards and shot up Slight’s sleeve. Slight shook his arm until the wand slid back down into his hand.

  ‘Ahem.’ Slight cleared his throat, then started the spell.

  ‘Little fish with the whiskery face

  This glass bowl is not your place.

  Close your eyes, sleep and dream,