“Grown-ups often get themselves into a pickle with these things,” Mrs. Fickletint replied. “But girls and chameleons? We’re not going to let you down. When the fire kraken held you prisoner, we didn’t sail away, even though we had the real Stargold Wings down in the cabin. You’re part of our crew. And crews stick together. They have to if they want to save the world in just three days.”
Zeb, who had never been part of a family or a friendship group, let alone a crew that vowed to stick together, felt so unexpectedly cheered by the prospect, he almost toppled off the bench. And there was something else, too. Seeing Morg and her dark magic up close again had confirmed that what was happening here in the Unmapped Kingdoms was bigger than him. However much he told himself the Faraway didn’t matter, he was beginning to see that it did.
Zeb looked first at Oonie and then at Mrs. Fickletint. “I’m not quite sure about my original plan,” he said slowly. “I think I need a bit more time to think about what happens to the Faraway if we find the Ember Scroll.”
Mrs. Fickletint was beginning to smile.
Zeb plowed on. “I’m going to give you and Oonie a trial run in trust.” He looked at them nervously. “But just so you know, I’m expecting to be disappointed.”
“Hooray!” Mrs. Fickletint cried. “Oh, it is nice not to be loathed by you, Zeb.”
And Zeb noticed even Oonie managed a smile then. A small one, at the very edge of her lips, but it lingered as she faced the moonlight and let the night breeze sift through her hair.
Zeb looked at the moon as Mrs. Fickletint settled down for a snooze in Oonie’s lap. It was so big and bright, he felt he could almost reach out and touch it. And far below, shining like foil, was the sea. The Kerfuffle flew on above tiny islands dotted here and there, not much more than a scrap of sand and a handful of palm trees. Zeb felt a sudden pang that Oonie—smiling up at the sky—couldn’t see the wonder of Crackledawn laid out beneath her.
“I don’t see the world the way most people see it,” she said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. “I notice things others miss. Even if the sunchatter’s miles and miles away, I can still hear little snippets of its music—tiny snatches of sunrises and sunsets—as if it’s calling just to me.”
Zeb nodded, knowing how it felt to hear melodies wherever you were and realizing with a jolt that this thing they had in common—their connection to music—might have been part of the reason he’d decided to trust Oonie.
She went on. “The Crackledawn in my mind is as crystal clear as if I could see it.” She paused. “I can tell you what stars smell like and what moonlight tastes of.”
“What do stars smell like?” Zeb asked.
Oonie leaned forward and sniffed. “Like wild mint. Fresh and cool and fierce.”
Zeb gave the air a big long sniff, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t unlock the secrets of Oonie’s world.
“And the moonlight?” Zeb asked. “What does that taste of?”
“Moonlight?” Oonie smiled as the Kerfuffle soared on over the sea. “Moonlight tastes of adventure.”
* * *
When Zeb awoke the next morning, the hurtle was tidying up the mess left in the wake of the kraken’s attack, Mrs. Fickletint was darning Oonie’s ripped tunic (while stirring a pot of porridge with her toe and writing a to-do list with a pen in her mouth), and something in the direction of the staircase was making a strange crackling noise. Zeb pulled the Stargold Wings out from beneath his pillow. They were still glowing but not as brightly as before. Mrs. Fickletint had mentioned last night that their magic was running out. They had helped Zeb on the dragon’s back and revealed a message to the crew. But eventually their magic would fade completely, and only being reunited with the Ember Scroll could restore their power.
Zeb sat up in his threadbear. The crackling noise was coming from a plaque nailed to the wall halfway up the stairs that held a large conch. Zeb watched in surprise as the opening to this conch moved, just like a mouth.
An old, and very frightened, voice sputtered out: “Calling all those aboard the Kerfuffle!”
Mrs. Fickletint spat out her pen, threw down her needle, abandoned her porridge, and charged toward the conch. “Greyhobble!”
“A message from the Lofty Husks?” Oonie murmured as she clambered out of her cubbyhole. “Then Morg hasn’t quite managed to strip them of their magic yet!”
The crew huddled on the stairs around the conch.
“I don’t have much time,” the voice inside the shell was saying. “We are still hiding inside Cathedral Cave on Wildhorn, and the Sunsmiths here are using the last of the sunchatter to compose symphonies for the Faraway’s sun scrolls. But Morg’s skeletons surround the cave, and every hour that goes by they draw out a little more Lofty Husk magic, weakening our protection charms so that, one day soon, they will be able to rush inside, finish us all off, and claim Crackledawn for Morg.”
Mrs. Fickletint nibbled at her tail. “If only this conch allowed us to speak back! I could send a message to Greyhobble to pass on to dear Mr. Fickletint and our children, just to tell them that I love them in case—in case—”
Oonie shook her head. “Don’t think like that, Mrs. Fickletint.”
Greyhobble went on. “We thought all was lost yesterday. Timberdust, Crumpet, and I assumed we had a matter of minutes before our magic left us. But then something extraordinary happened.”
Zeb, Oonie, and Mrs. Fickletint leaned in closer.
“Morg left Wildhorn, screeching about stealing back the Stargold Wings, and as she did so, something—someone—hurtled into Cathedral Cave. A woman from the Faraway clutching a phoenix tear!” There was a pause. “Fox Petty-Squabble is here in Crackledawn!”
Zeb felt something new and unforeseen rise up in his chest. Fox was here, in Crackledawn?
“The phoenix tear helped Fox to break back into the Unmapped Kingdoms, and its magic has not only granted me the strength to send you a message now, but it has also strengthened the protection charms around Cathedral Cave, so, for the time being, we remain safe from Morg’s Midnights. But Morg is still looking for the Ember Scroll. If she finds it and writes her ending, then the world will crumble! The Kerfuffle is our only hope. You must find the scroll before Morg and bring back a phoenix to save us all!”
Oonie nudged Mrs. Fickletint. “Like I told you all along…”
The chameleon rolled her eyes.
Then Greyhobble spoke again. “I can sense the presence of a Faraway child aboard the Kerfuffle, so before the last of my magic leaves me completely, there is one more thing that needs to be said.”
There was a crackling, shuffling sort of sound, then another voice sounded from the conch. “Zebedee Bolt,” it said. “I told you I’d come back for you, and I want you to know that I intend to keep that promise. I will find you. And I will show you that you are worth crossing worlds and kingdoms to find.”
Oonie gasped, Mrs. Fickletint gaped, and Zeb felt the air slide from his lungs. The promise Fox had made to him back in the Faraway hadn’t been broken. Not yet anyway.
“If Morg overheard our conversation back in the theater,” Fox said, “then she will have poisoned you against me. She will have told you that I betrayed my brother in Jungledrop.”
Zeb stiffened.
“I did betray Fibber, but I was wrong to. And I did everything in my power to set things right.” She paused. “I’m not perfect. Nobody is. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying to make the world a better place. You will save the Unmapped Kingdoms and the Faraway, Zeb, even if right now you’re not sure whether they’re worth saving. And you will come to realize that people can be trusted and promises can be kept. Until then, I want you to have this.”
The conch belched, and then, to Zeb’s surprise, a little black purse tumbled out.
Zeb picked it up, but when he tried to draw back the silver zipper to see what was inside, he realized he couldn’t open it. No matter how hard he tugged, the zipper wouldn’t budge.
“An Unopenable Purse,” Mrs. Fickletint gasped. “Not even knives can break the zipper or tear the velvet it’s made from. It’s said there are only a handful of these left in the whole of the Unmapped Kingdoms.”
Fox spoke again. “Greyhobble told me that if someone holds an Unopenable Purse and hopes hard upon it, it will fill with enchanted objects and, when the time is right, the purse will open and these objects will be revealed.” She paused. “I do not know what you will find in this purse, Zeb, but I do know that I poured every hope I have for you upon it. So, good luck, and know that I’m rooting for you every step of the way.”
The conch crackled, then fell silent.
“You know Fox Petty-Squabble?” Oonie said incredulously.
Mrs. Fickletint flashed several colors at once. “The Fox Petty-Squabble who rescued a Lofty Husk, freed Jungledrop’s Unmappers, saved a glow-in-the-dark rainforest, restored rain to the Faraway, and became best friends with her brother?!”
Zeb shifted. This did not sound like the woman Morg had told him about.
“I—I met her once,” he mumbled. “Just after I ran away from my foster home. But then Morg kidnapped me.”
“I heard she rode on the back of a golden panther,” Oonie said, her face full of awe.
“I heard she took on a forest full of cursed trees and a troop of demon monkeys, all in the space of a single night.” Mrs. Fickletint turned to Zeb. “What miraculous thing did she do when you met her in the Faraway?”
“She offered to take me out for a milkshake.” There was an awkward silence. “And—and she made a promise to me. She told me she’d come back for me.”
Mrs. Fickletint smiled. “Well, it looks like she’s doing just that.”
Zeb turned the Unopenable Purse over in his hands. This was something someone from his world had held, and now he was holding it. But not only that. This was something filled with hope, a reminder that there was someone rooting for him after all. He realized that he was smiling because the truth of things was, finally, starting to sink in. Trust might start small. An outstretched hand or a promised milkshake. But it could grow.
“If a promise can cross worlds,” Zeb said quietly, “do you think it can battle past fire krakens, ogre eels, and harpies, too? Or does it run out of steam eventually?”
Oonie guffawed. “I don’t think a promise by Fox Petty-Squabble would ever run out of steam.”
“So, you could say this was an unbreakable sort of promise,” Zeb said, slipping the Unopenable Purse into his pocket.
Mrs. Fickletint nodded.
Through a porthole, Zeb glimpsed a silver whale with a little calf tucked under her fin. Then he glanced at the sunchatter in the barrel behind them. It was glittering, like thousands of gold coins. All this magic, Zeb thought, tucked away in the Unmapped Kingdoms, and yet the Unmappers here worked hard to share it with his world so that the Faraway would be filled with beauty too. He was starting to understand the extraordinary balance of it all.
He stood up to face Oonie and Mrs. Fickletint. And, with the Stargold Wings clasped tight in his hands and the Unopenable Purse firmly in his pocket, he said: “Let’s give saving the world a go, then.”
Chapter 15
There wasn’t time for Mrs. Fickletint to shower Zeb with kisses, because suddenly the boat began to drop down toward the sea. The crew rushed to the porthole in the kitchen and looked out just as the Kerfuffle splashed down onto the water and its wings slid back into the slats of wood as if they’d never been there.
Zeb gulped. The water here was black, like oil. And drifting on the surface, lifeless, was a shoal of butterflies the size of dinner plates.
“Butterflips,” Mrs. Fickletint gasped. “Underwater butterflies are said to live in the most remote parts of the ocean. Even they have been killed by Morg’s dark magic!”
“There’s sunchatter in these parts,” Oonie murmured. “Lots of it. But it’s not singing I can hear—it’s sobbing. Which means the whole lot is cursed.” She bit her lip. “The Bother-Ahead Beacons, what color are they?”
“Yellow,” Zeb replied firmly.
Mrs. Fickletint nodded. “If there were Midnights in these parts, they’ve gone now.”
“But what if it was Morg who was here?” Zeb cried. “What if the Final Curtain is close by and she’s already found the Ember Scroll?”
Oonie shook her head. “We’d know if she had the scroll because it’s said the Unmapped skies will shake with fear and the sun will hide if she finds it.”
Mrs. Fickletint grimaced at the sea. “This will be her Midnights patrolling the ocean looking for us and the Stargold Wings.…” She glanced at the Bother-Ahead Beacons again. “For now, though, we’re safe.”
The Kerfuffle eased on through the dark water, and Zeb caught a glimpse of a lifeless squid covered in hearts, which Oonie explained must once have been a squidge—a rare breed of squid fond of hugs. Zeb shivered. Morg’s dark magic was everywhere.… Then the crew felt the unmistakable sensation of sand slide up beneath the hull, and the Kerfuffle ground to a halt.
Mrs. Fickletint scampered up the stairs and pushed the trapdoor open a fraction. “It’s a large island,” she whispered. “And even though the water around it is pitch-black, the island itself seems to be untouched by Morg’s dark magic! Beyond the bay there’s a sandy beach, a wild-looking jungle, and”—she frowned—“a rock goblin asleep in a hammock.…”
“Rock goblin?” Zeb braced himself. “Should we take the cannon?”
Oonie shook her head. “The rock goblins are on our side. They run the Cheeky Urchin back home on Wildhorn—a food and drink shack specializing in exotic fruit juices that make your bottom wiggle.”
“What a goblin is doing all the way out here beats me,” Mrs. Fickletint said, shaking her head.
Oonie took a deep breath. “Let’s go and investigate, because if the Kerfuffle has come to a stop, there must be a reason for it.”
The crew inched out of the trapdoor, tiptoed across the deck, then Zeb and Mrs. Fickletint peered over the prow of the boat. A cluster of small creatures were sobbing in the shallows. Some were pale blue with pointed ears, others gold with wings.
Zeb eyed them. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just grab the cannon? We could give the surrounding area one quick blast before we get off the boat?”
“They’re water pixies and sand sprites,” Mrs. Fickletint replied. “And they look as miserable as us about Crackledawn’s magic fading. They’re nothing to worry about, Zeb. Unless you’ve got a secret stash of puddleberries in your pocket. In which case you’ll be mobbed the minute you step off the boat. Water pixies are obsessed with them.”
The Kerfuffle had nosed up onto a large semicircle of golden sand, and just before the jungle of trees began, there was a little wooden shack. All this Mrs. Fickletint relayed to Oonie.
“Palms cover the roof, pans hang down from hooks below, and dangling from the counter is a sign that says: WELCOME TO RICKETY GRAMPS.”
Oonie nodded firmly, but Zeb noticed her shoulders were bunched up and she was gripping the prow of the boat so tight her knuckles were white. Brave, risk-taking, adventure-seeking Oonie was scared.
“What’s the goblin up to?” she whispered.
“To the side of the shack, there’s a hammock strung between two palm trees,” Mrs. Fickletint explained, “and he’s asleep in there.”
“He’s really green,” Zeb added.
“I know what a goblin looks like,” Oonie hissed.
Everything from the goblin’s clothes—palm-leaf shorts and a seaweed waistcoat barely covering his potbelly—to his nose, which was big and bulbous and looked very much like a pear—was green. In fact, the only thing that wasn’t green were his dreadlocks, which were gray and matted, like a bundle of old rope.
“Should we wake him up?” Zeb asked.
Oonie nodded. “We’ve only got two nights until the full moon. We don’t have time for afternoon siestas.”
Zeb was used to the way Oon
ie moved aboard the Kerfuffle—swiftly, decisively—but she was hesitating now. And it wasn’t until Mrs. Fickletint scrambled up onto her shoulder that she began to look like the Oonie that Zeb knew.
“A short drop off the boat, then you’re in the shallows,” Mrs. Fickletint whispered as Oonie swung a leg up onto the side of the Kerfuffle. “After that, it’s a couple of strides to the beach. Then the goblin’s hammock will be straight ahead.”
Zeb watched as Oonie lowered herself into the blackened sea, slowly and carefully. Sliding over the prow after her, he flinched as his own legs slipped into cursed waters and his feet touched the sand. Oonie stumbled in the shallows ahead and Zeb charged through the water after her. He arrived, breathless, by her side.
“Is everything okay?” Oonie whispered.
Zeb shook himself. “Er—yes. I just didn’t want to be late.”
Mrs. Fickletint said nothing but smiled knowingly.
Ignoring her, Zeb walked up onto the beach. The sand between his toes felt comforting, his first time on land since arriving in Crackledawn.
It was only when the crew were standing right in front of the hammock that the goblin awoke. He opened one eye, then the other, before hoisting himself upright, falling off his hammock, and landing flat on his face in the sand. He got up, dislodged a shell from his enormous nose, and gasped.
“Visitors! An Unmapper, a chameleon, and”—he rubbed his eyes—“a Faraway boy! Well, I never.… What with all the dark magic skulking around, Rickety Gramps hasn’t had a single customer in over a decade! Not since the Lofty Husks stopped by all those years ago to wish me a Merry Christmas and check in to see how my retirement was going. And then you lot come along! Well, now you’re here, I’d best fix you up a juice. I, Dollop, did used to be the head chef at the Cheeky Urchin, after all—before I realized that I needed to escape the rat race and have a bit of me-time. Now it’s all yoga, bubble baths, and vegetable smoothies, which is just as well because it’s pretty hard to keep relaxed when the ocean around you turns blacker each day.…”
Zeb Bolt and the Ember Scroll Page 10
