Blue Fire and Ice

by Alan Skinner

  The boats drew near, then touched. Grunge propelled himself upward and to his left, throwing himself blindly into the other boat. His shoulder crashed into the robed figure, knocking him from his bench and to the bottom of the boat. The suddenness of the attack surprised the figure. For a second, he lay stunned. Grunge flailed wildly, trying to get a grip on the person he couldn’t see. Then the figure knocked aside Grunge’s swinging arms and grabbed him by the throat.

  ‘Now, Crimson!’ yelled Reach. She didn’t wait to see if Crimson had grabbed the oars. The instant she stopped rowing, the boats started to drift apart. Another second and she wouldn’t make it …

  Reach closed her eyes and danced. Her feet barely touched the wood as she flew from her bench. A leap that would have done any prima ballerina proud took her to the front of the small boat. With another leap she soared upwards over the water towards the other boat.

  Reach had judged her leap perfectly. She came down with the lightness of a butterfly, immediately behind the robed figure who still had hold of Grunge.

  Reach opened her eyes. Grunge was fighting desperately, the assailant tightening his hold on Grunge’s throat. Grunge’s attempts to wrench free were becoming feebler. Reach didn’t have much time.

  She wrapped her arms around the robed figure, trapping his upper arms. Still he held Grunge. Reach squeezed and pulled, lifting both Grunge and his assailant. Still the figure kept his hold on Grunge’s throat. Reached tensed her muscles, then squeezed harder. She heard the gasp from the figure in her arms and sensed his hold on Grunge was slackening. She squeezed still harder putting all her strength into saving Grunge.

  Reach was thrown off balance as the robed figure’s grip on Grunge broke. Quickly, she shifted her footing and held onto the thrashing figure in her arms. With a fury that frightened her, he kicked and flailed. But Reach held him fast, pinning his arms to his body. Grunge lurched from the bottom of the boat, gasping and coughing. He sucked in air in huge gulps, his throat burning. He looked up. The boat was headed straight for the bridge. It would be smashed to pieces if it ran against the stone support. He looked for the oars and spotted them at the bottom of the boat, just out of reach. He would have to leave Reach to hold the intruder while he rowed them to safety. He stretched out his hands to grab the oars.

  A few metres away, Crimson faced the same peril. Although the current was weak, it was enough to make rowing across it hard work. Crimson’s arms ached; her muscles felt torn and ripped. She glanced backwards. She could see the robed assailant struggle in Reach’s arms. In the clear light of the three-quarter moon she watched Grunge straining at the oars to bring the small craft away from the bridge supports. She could see Reach’s determination as she held the assailant in her grip. The struggles from her prisoner grew weaker and weaker until finally, he gave up and hung limply in Reach’s arms. Reach didn’t relax. Crimson smiled to herself, knew that nothing could make Reach loosen her grip.

  From the hospital, Bell came running. He had been inside when the beam of light had torn the sky and he had escaped its blinding flash. He dashed towards the jetty, glancing at the river as he did so. The sight of the ballerina, balancing in unison with the rocking of the boat and holding in her arms a hooded figure, stopped him dead in his tracks. Bell stared, then a wide grin creased his face.

  ‘I’ll be …’ he murmured.

  The other Beadles staggered from the hospital. The beads of light swirling in their eyes were fading as they joined Bell. They looked at the river and stood stock-still. Then their disbelief turned to joy and they cheered in celebration.

  Across the milky face of the three-quarter moon drifted a small cloud. Had the Beadles looked, they would have seen the peculiar cloud, in the shape of a large bird, silhouetted against the face of the moon. The Muddles felt its shadow and instantly all three looked up. Crimson was inches from the jetty. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered.

  To the watching Beadles, it looked as if each of the Muddles was bathed in a cloud of shimmering gossamer. The dim light rippled around the Muddles, like the haze of a desert mirage. For a few seconds, each became a wavy, whirling blur. Then the shimmering light stilled and faded and the Muddles came back to normal.

  Normal for a Muddle, perhaps.

  Crimson looked at herself. Arms clad in the sleeves of a black dinner suit held the oars in place of her own. Slight’s arms. The legs stretched out from the bench on which she sat looked very familiar. Rock-star legs. Grunge’s.

  Her oars had vanished. Where her own hands had been, Slight’s hands appeared, blurred and came together again, cupping something inside. Crimson opened Slight’s hands and a white dove emerged. The dove spread its wings, cooed once and flew off into the night. Her hands, whoever had them, held the oars. Without them, Crimson could do nothing as the boat was caught by the current and drifted downstream.

  All through the Land, every Muddle felt the same shiver as they mixed. Grunge felt it the moment before his hands closed around the oars. He felt a fingernail catch on the oar, then snap. ‘Oh, bother, I’ve broken a nail!’ he said to himself. He glanced at his hand and saw long, thin fingers, one adorned with an onyx ring and another with a thin silver ring in the shape of a serpent. The fingers had long, freshly manicured nails. He could just make out the colour. A deep blue, with a small silver star in the centre of each nail – except the second last finger, which had a much shorter nail with a jagged edge. ‘Rather pretty,’ he found himself thinking. ‘Leaf is still in her blue period. I’ll bet she’s wearing matching lipstick.’

  Much easier to make out were his legs. White legs, somewhat shorter than his own, that ended in very sensible white shoes. ‘I wonder whose legs Bright has?’ he mused. Then he had the oars in the water and was rowing desperately towards the safety of the jetty.

  Things did not go well for Reach. The strong arms that held their captive were replaced by arms encased in a spacesuit. The robed figure felt the pressure lessen and made a desperate effort to break free. Reach struggled to hold her prisoner but she felt her grip weaken as the hooded figure struggled desperately. Sky was not as strong as Reach and the thickly padded arms of the spacesuit made it hard to keep her arms around her prisoner.

  The boat rocked violently from side to side. Reach’s knees buckled and she staggered. Her balance was gone. From the corner of her eye, she could see the legs that had replaced her own. Patch’s legs.

  Reach’s stomach rumbled and lurched. ‘And Patch,’ she remembered, ‘gets seasick …’

  ‘Grunge!’ she yelled. ‘Help me! I can’t hold him!’

  The boat rocked sharply and Reach felt terribly ill. The legs beneath her crumpled. Her captive twisted and wrenched free as Reach started to fall. She had a brief instant to glimpse the face within the deep hood before the figure pushed her and she fell from the boat. The cold water closed over her.

  Grunge shipped his oars and sprang just as the figure pushed Reach into the river. As he clutched at the figure, it turned and stepped sideways. Grunge missed, his momentum carrying him past the menacing figure. He turned, still trying to get his balance. The hooded figure snatched one of the oars and thrust it hard at Grunge. The oar hit Grunge on the shoulder, knocking him back. He felt the boat’s edge against his calves. Grunge’s arms flailed as he tried to stay upright. The oar speared towards him again and caught him in the middle of his stomach. Grunge plunged backwards out of the boat.

  Crimson watched helplessly from her boat. With both Muddles in the river, the figure took up the oars and swiftly rowed past the bridge towards Crimson. It turned and faced the Muddle. For a dozen heartbeats it looked at her. Crimson felt the gaze like it was a hand reaching out and touching her. The figure spoke, in a voice high and thin, yet full of menace.

  ‘Sister. Sisters yet.’

  It was a woman’s voice. Crimson stared, chilled by the words, as the hooded woman turned the boat downstream and rowed.

  The Beadles on the jetty watched helplessly as the enemy they had in their
grasp escaped with the current downstream. They looked at the Muddles with despair and disappointment. Shaking their heads, they turned from their neighbours.

  Sky’s suit was very buoyant and Reach bobbed like a cork in the middle of the river, lying on her back, her arms stretched out, slowly drifting towards the bridge. Grunge doggy-paddled as hard as he could, thinking he would have to teach Leaf how to swim properly. And Crimson sat in her boat, her head in Slight’s hands, letting the river take her where it willed.

  Far downstream, the hooded figure rowed round a bend and disappeared.

  Chapter 6

  Beyond the River

  Late summer in Muddlemarsh is a wonderful time to be outdoors. The days are pleasantly warm and the sky is its most beautiful blue. The air has a touch of freshness that heralds autumn’s coming. The coffee cherries are at their deepest red and the time approaches for the harvest. The forest is at its most inviting, and on this day Leaf had chosen to accept Nature’s invitation.

  Leaf had pitched her tent in the middle of a small grove of sycamore and birch. It sat snugly under the trees with rays of sunlight creating dancing shadows on its sides from the leaves above. Carefully, she moved her paintbrush in a smooth curve. At the top of the curve, she dipped her brush again in the red paint and continued down the inside of the curve and then up again to create a long, looping “y”. Leaf put down the brush and looked at her tent.

  It has to be said that the tent did not blend into the forest. In the brightest colours, Leaf had decorated the tent with flowers and pixies; with small birds and furry animals; with stars and a smiling sun. Most of all, across the top and sides, she had blazoned words in fat, colourful letters: ‘Nature Rules’, ‘So Cool’, ‘Leaf Shakes!’, ‘Muddles Mix It Best!’, ‘Fab’, ‘Grunge Rocks!’ and ‘Groovy Chick’.

  Smiling happily, she closed her paintbox and cleaned her brushes, careful not to splash paint on her neat and very smart scout uniform. She liked her uniform, though it probably wouldn’t have passed inspection in many troops. The colour, being neither olive green nor brown, was one that Leaf had chosen herself when she became a teenager. Royal blue was the colour she had decided her teenage years would be. A mature colour, she thought, but not dull; bright but not garish; noticeable, but not seeking attention. ‘My coming-of-age colour,’ she had declared to her best friend, Reach. Reach had nodded and looked down at her own pink ballet dress and decided that she must have come of age when she was very young, for she had always worn pink and it had always seemed right.

  Of course, the right accessories count for everything and Leaf had chosen hers just as carefully. The scarf knotted around her neck was emerald green, matching the piping around her scout’s tunic and the pocket of her scout’s skirt. The very tip of green socks could be seen just above the very chic blue ankle boots on her feet.

  Packing her paints neatly, she went inside the tent and brought out a small table. Back and forth she went, bringing out object after object until she had a table, a small chair, a mirror, a basin, a make-up case, a manicure kit, brushes and combs, lotions, creams and polishes. She surveyed her salon, sat down and looked critically at her right hand.

  Each of the nails was painted iridescent blue, with a small silver star in the exact centre of each one. All the nails but one were perfectly curved and rounded. Not too long, for Leaf considered long nails were so not right on a thirteen-year-old girl, and thirteen was precisely her age.

  Leaf looked at the nail that was not perfectly round and curved. The nail had snapped just at the tip of the finger, leaving a cracked and jagged edge. She shook her head. “Wherever you ended up last night, someone wasn’t too careful,” she spoke aloud. Muddles never got upset at what happened during a Mix. Leaf remembered how during the last Mix she had spilled a whole tin of red paint on Bright’s pristine white blouse. Bright had not said a word and brushed aside Leaf’s apologies.

  ‘Don’t fret, Leaf. During a Mix, we are all responsible for each other. It may have been your head that told my hands what to do, but it was my hands holding the tin. So, which of us is responsible? It is better to deal with what happens than to cry over it.’

  It was late morning, and the Mix had only just ended. Last night had been Leaf’s second grown-up Mix. Muddle children only mix with other children, until they start becoming young adult Muddles. Leaf was still feeling good about mixing with the grown-ups, though she sensed that something wrong had happened last night. She felt a resonance today of unhappiness, of a disturbance that had caused distress. And besides, she had a bruise on her shoulder and it hurt. Leaf had pushed the feeling aside and got on with things.

  Right now, the most pressing of these was to repair her broken nail and then a nice, relaxing facial.

  Leaf had almost finished filing the nail into its proper rounded shape when she heard a crashing in the brush behind her. The crashing was accompanied by several loud sniffs and a very loud sneeze.

  ‘Bless you,’ said Leaf without looking round.

  An animal emerged from the brush. Even on all fours, it was as tall as Leaf. The animal stepped into the glade, right next to the tent and stood on its hind legs. Its dark eyes swept the camp site. Spotting Leaf, it dropped to all fours and walked noiselessly until it was right behind the preoccupied young Muddle. It raised one of its massive front paws, its long, sharp claws inches from Leaf’s head. Leaf remained intent on her nail. The paw drew back. The bear opened its huge mouth, showing its fearsome teeth. And sneezed.

  ‘Bless you again, Miniver,’ said Leaf, still not looking round. ‘You know you shouldn’t be wandering around the woods. It makes your hay fever worse at this time of year.’

  Miniver dabbed her nose with her paw. She moved to the side of the chair and sat next to Leaf, watching her intently.

  ‘Don’t ask me to do your claws. I haven’t got time. I have to take all the nail polish off this nail and then put on some fresh polish. And a new star. Then, I’m going to give myself a facial. There’s no point in camping if you can’t give yourself a proper beauty treatment.’

  ‘A little more off the left side of the nail, and you really must attend to those cuticles,’ said Miniver, putting her nose right next to Leaf’s hand.

  ‘Move your nose, please, Miniver, before I paint it blue,’ said Leaf playfully. ‘Your nose isn’t made of glass. I can’t see my nail.’

  Miniver moved her nose and sat down next to Leaf. ‘I hope she’s brought a warm jumper in case the night turns chilly,’ she fussed, then sneezed again. Leaf reached into her make-up bag and drew out a tissue and dabbed the bear’s nose. She looked at Miniver’s broad, black nose.

  ‘You’d look quite funky with a red flower on your nose,’ said Leaf.

  Miniver considered the possibility.

  ‘Are you going to stay here with me tonight? There’s enough room in the tent but try not to sneeze too much. It might be fun. We could do girl stuff.’ Leaf smiled at the bear. ‘Or are you too old for girls’ stuff?’

  Miniver considered that possibility, too.

  ‘Hello, you two!’ Wave’s cheerful greeting interrupted Miniver’s cogitation. She and Leaf turned their heads to see Wave approach on his bicycle. Leaf loved Wave’s bike. It was the hottest bike in Muddlemarsh. She wished she had a bike as cool.

  Wave’s surfboard was lashed to a metal stand behind the seat and it brushed the branches of the trees as he rode into the glade. He had ear pads in his ears and one of the new CarryTune boxes attached to his handlebars. He hummed the last couple of bars of the song playing on his CarryTune, then removed the ear pads and left them hanging around his neck.

  ‘Hi, Wave,’ said Leaf, smiling. ‘Been surfing?’

  ‘Yup, just got some early-morning curls,’ he replied. Miniver ambled over to Wave and raised her paw.

  ‘Hello, Wave,’ she said. ‘You’re looking a bit thin. Are you eating properly?’ Miniver was very fond of Wave and worried about him. No matter how healthy he appeared, she always thought he
looked a bit thin.

  Wave patted the bear and rubbed her flanks. ‘What’s all the growling, eh? Are you telling me off again?’

  ‘Catch any good waves?’ asked Leaf, applying the last strokes of her nail polish.

  ‘Some awesome ones out there today! You should have seen me, Leaf! I almost stood up on my board today!’ Wave was obviously very pleased with his efforts. ‘It wasn’t a very big wave – actually, it was a pretty small one – but I nearly stood up!’ Wave noticed Leaf’s handiwork on the tent. ‘Cool tent, Leaf! “Grunge Rocks!” Yeah, he sure does!’ A idea came into his head. ‘Hey, what about “Wave Rolls!”’ He laughed. Miniver rolled her eyes. Leaf smiled. It was easy to smile a lot when Wave was around.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’ she asked. ‘This isn’t the way back to Home.’

  ‘Gotta get to the plantation. Harvest starts next week and I just wanted to see how those new trees in the north field were doing. It’ll be the first crop from them.’

  ‘I like harvest time,’ said Leaf. ‘Before you know it, harvest is over and it’s Roasting Day. The Roasting Day Festival is the best day of the year.’

  On Roasting Day, the Muddles chose the very best beans they had extracted from the coffee cherries. Early in the morning, when the dew was still on the ground and the sun was just spreading over the land, all the Muddles gathered to fire the oldest of all the roasting kilns. While they waited for the kiln to heat, they sat together outside and had a breakfast of coffee and muffins. When the kiln was finally hot enough, they roasted their best beans. While the beans roasted, the Muddles played games and music; they danced; they had competitions to see who could run from the kiln to the field with a coffee bean on their nose and not let it fall; the young male Muddles particularly liked the Bean Shoot, in which they competed to see who could shoot a bean furthest by blowing it through a small tube. There was the annual coffee-making competition, which no one had ever won because every Muddle knew how to make perfect coffee.