Zeb Bolt and the Ember Scroll

by Abi Elphinstone

  Dollop reconfigured his body into a yoga pose: a one-legged, palm-meeting, knee-bending balancing act, which Zeb thought looked both painful and perilous (mainly on account of the goblin’s potbelly, which threatened to unbalance the whole maneuver).

  Dollop wobbled a little, then a lot, before collapsing in a heap.

  “So relaxing,” he said, spitting out sand. “Now, what can I get you all?”

  From Oonie’s shoulder, Mrs. Fickletint cleared her throat. “We’re looking for the Final Curtain.”

  Dollop frowned. “This is a tropical island, not an interiors shop.”

  “I’m not sure we’re looking for a curtain exactly,” Oonie said. “We’re looking for the Ember Scroll, but the Stargold Wings sent us a message saying we should sail on south to the Final Curtain, step beyond all we know is certain, seek a cave that has never been found, and claim the scroll before the moon is round.”

  Dollop flipped himself up into a handstand that came crashing down when his belly collided with his nose. “Before the moon is round… Why the rush?” He staggered up, panting. “Why not stay a while and enjoy some inner peace?”

  “BECAUSE MORG IS HERE IN CRACKLEDAWN!” Zeb spluttered. “AND WE DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR INNER PEACE!”

  Mrs. Fickletint patted him on the back. “Well said, dear.”

  “MORG IS HERE?!” Dollop yelped. He did several very fast, very unrelaxing yoga poses to try and calm himself down. “She’s come to steal the Unmapped magic once and for all, hasn’t she?! This is the end! We’re all doomed!”

  “Not if you can help us, we’re not,” Oonie said firmly.

  “Inner peace, inner peace, inner peace,” Dollop chanted with his eyes closed. He opened them nervously. “Gah! You’re still here. It’s really happening, then. I’m not dreaming!” And then he squinted at Oonie. “Don’t I recognize you?” He paused. “Yes, you’re the Unmapper whose conch opened early. The girl who can hear sunchatter miles away…”

  Oonie nodded.

  “I remember the Lofty Husks back on Wildhorn saying you were destined to become a brilliant Sunraider.” Dollop lowered his voice, as if he was afraid he might be heard. “But to take on Morg—are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Of course it’s not wise,” Mrs. Fickletint snapped. “But it’s happening. The Lofty Husks and all the other Unmappers are imprisoned on Wildhorn. So, as much as it pains me to say that two children and a chameleon are in charge of saving the world, that’s the state of the matter. We’re all Crackledawn’s got! And for a reason I’m finding very hard to fathom, the Kerfuffle has insisted we stop off here on our quest to write a hopeful ending for the world.”

  Dollop did a shaky sun salutation, then several elaborate breathing exercises. “I don’t know what the Final Curtain is or where you’ll find it. But if the Stargold Wings told you to step beyond all you know is certain and seek out a cave no one else has found, then I know what you need.”

  The crew leaned in hopefully and Dollop took a deep breath.

  “You, my friends, need a Crackledawn dragon.”

  Chapter 16

  The crew sat on stools outside the shack while Dollop handed three blue juices, garnished with pineapple, over the counter.

  “Blueberry swigs,” he explained to Zeb. “My speciality at the Cheeky Urchin, but I haven’t added wigglewort this time—the herb that makes your bottom shake—because now is not the time for wobbling bottoms. It is the time for pancakes and planning.”

  While they tucked into fluffy pancakes laden with exotic fruit, Dollop gave a hurried explanation of the island. It was called Rickety Gramps because it was the island where the spirits of the Faraway’s grandparents went to rest. And on the surface of things, it appeared slow-moving and uneventful. But on closer inspection it was—much like grandparents themselves—intensely magical, which was why it had withstood Morg’s dark magic so far. Footprints known as footglints appeared, out of nowhere, in the sand. There were calm trees instead of palm trees, which whispered soothing stories when you couldn’t get to sleep. And while the shore looked perfectly ordinary, it was, in fact, a seasnore, which snored every time the tide drew back. Zeb concluded that, given everything he had faced so far in Hollowbone and Crackledawn, he could probably handle Rickety Gramps without needing to go back to the ship for the cannon.

  “Why do we need a dragon to find the Ember Scroll?” Zeb asked. “I’ve only met one before, and it’s not an experience I’m keen to repeat…”

  “Dragons,” Dollop replied, “are the wildest of all the magical creatures in the Unmapped Kingdoms. They scatter moondust each night to keep what is left of the Unmapped magic going because they are loyal to the very first phoenix, but they bow to no one. Not even the Lofty Husks.”

  “Unless they’re a dragon conjured from bones,” Mrs. Fickletint murmured, “in which case they’re loyal to Morg.…”

  Dollop shuddered. “When the Unmapped dragons swoop by in the dead of night to collect scrolls for the Faraway, they’re rarely seen. They can travel vast distances without tiring, they can fly through the fiercest blizzards, they can burn entire cities with one blast of fire.”

  A few days ago, Zeb would have scoffed at the idea of dragons racing over New York, but he was getting a little better at taking magic in his stride.

  “They don’t speak and they don’t abide by our rules,” Dollop added. “Theirs is a world we don’t fully understand, though it’s said that if one dragon kills another dragon, that dragon will be banished from the Unmapped Kingdoms forever.” He took a slurp of his swig. “Unmapped dragons can be any color, but you can tell which kingdom each dragon is from because they have distinctive quirks. Rumblestar’s dragons have giant, star-studded wings so they can fly higher than the moon. Jungledrop’s dragons have tails as long as rivers so they can trail rainforest magic in their wake. Silvercrag’s have icicle teeth so they can breathe jets of ice.”

  “And Crackledawn dragons?” Zeb asked nervously.

  “I’ve never been lucky enough to see one,” Mrs. Fickletint said, “but according to Terrence Talonswipe, author of The Dragonfiles, they have gills and webbed talons so they can swim incredibly fast underwater.”

  “You’re right,” Dollop said. “They can race beneath the waves, but they can’t breathe fire there.”

  “And their eyes are flecked with sunlight,” Oonie said.

  Dollop nodded. “The thing that might interest you lot most is that Crackledawn dragons have a notoriously good sense of smell, particularly when it comes to sniffing out magic.”

  “Better than fire krakens?” Zeb asked.

  “Infinitely better. So, if the Ember Scroll is in unchartered territory, you’re going to need a dragon to sniff it out.” Dollop glanced at the Kerfuffle. “Your enchanted boat has taken you this far, but now it’s time for an upgrade.”

  “But how can we call a dragon to us when they’re the wildest beasts in the kingdom?” Zeb cried.

  “He’s right,” Oonie said. “It would be like trying to call in the wind.”

  “You can summon almost anything if you know how,” Dollop said eagerly. “And while I don’t recall anyone ever successfully summoning a dragon before, that doesn’t mean you won’t.” He rummaged about beneath the counter before emerging, moments later, with a leather-bound book. The words “Mustering Up Magic, edited by Enora Nattermuch” ran along the spine. “It’s like a phone book. Only for magical creatures. The Lofty Husks dropped it off, in case I ever want to summon a lift back to Wildhorn.” Dollop opened it and began scanning the pages. “To summon a cockle imp, sneeze four times. To summon a silver whale, whistle with an item of silver under your tongue.” He ran a finger down the page. “Ah yes, here. To summon a dragon—”

  Zeb winced. It was bound to be something impossible and dreadful, like tap dancing on the ocean floor while juggling sea-hoppers and fending off a fire kraken.

  “—play the Faraway’s very first sunrise.”

  Music lay at the heart o
f calling a Crackledawn dragon? Zeb’s surprise was quickly replaced with gloom because the very first sunrise would’ve happened way, way before any of them were born, so what Dollop was suggesting was impossible!

  Oonie snorted, clearly thinking the same thing. “There would have been a symphony for the first sunrise here in Crackledawn once—the earliest Unmappers would have played it on the organ in Cathedral Cave before sending the sun scroll on to the Faraway—but it would have been sent centuries ago.”

  Mrs. Fickletint tutted. “I think that swig has gone to your head, Dollop.”

  “And how can we play anything?” Zeb asked. “I don’t see any instruments lying around.”

  “We’re getting carried away with the impossibles,” Oonie said. “Maybe we need to focus on the possibles first. Somehow, we need to find someone very, very, very old who remembers the symphony of the first sunrise. Then we can work out how to play it.”

  Dollop said nothing for a while and then his eyes lit up. “Trampletusk… Of course!” He hopped excitedly from one foot to the other. “She’s why your boat led you here! It knew you needed a dragon to reach the Final Curtain, and it knew only Trampletusk would remember the sunrise needed to summon it!”

  Zeb braced himself. “Who or what is Trampletusk?”

  “There’s an old saying,” Dollop went on, “that perhaps you have in the Faraway, too: An elephant never forgets. And in the deepest part of the jungle here lives the last enchanted elephant in Crackledawn. Trampletusk remembers every little thing that has ever happened in this kingdom: what your first words were, Oonie, and what you ate for dinner on your sixtieth birthday, Mrs. Fickletint.”

  “How dare you,” Mrs. Fickletint muttered. “I’m not a day over fifty-nine.”

  “Then she can remember where the phoenix hid the Ember Scroll!” Zeb cried. “And maybe she can let us into the harpy’s memories too, so we can keep track of her!”

  “Alas,” Dollop said, “Trampletusk only recalls the memories of Crackledawn’s inhabitants: the Lofty Husks, the Unmappers, and the magical creatures here. I’ve only ever seen her at night, because in the day she takes herself off into a cave to absorb all the memories fizzing away in the kingdom. But if you’re after the first sunrise, she’s your best bet.”

  Oonie stood up. “We need to start looking for her straightaway—we’ve only got two more nights, then the full moon rises. We have to find the Ember Scroll before Morg.”

  Dollop nodded. “And before the Midnights I’ve seen snooping around these parts come back and find you…”

  Mrs. Fickletint eyed the jungle beyond the shack. “What can we expect in there?”

  “Mostly it’s just feather-tailed monkeys, prattleparrots, and the odd silkbat.” Dollop paused. “But there are one or two suzukis.”

  Zeb nibbled his nails. “Suzukis?”

  “Enormous black flowers with silver speckles and very tall stems,” Dollop explained. “Ninety percent of the time they sing sweetly when you pass by.”

  “And the other ten percent?” Zeb asked.

  Dollop gulped down the last of his swig. “They swallow you whole.”

  * * *

  After a few frenzied yoga moves, Dollop led the way on through the jungle. There were trees laden with bananas, jackfruit, coconuts, and some sort of magical fruit looked like a mango but was blue. There were monkeys with rainbow-colored tail feathers darting through the branches. And there were prattleparrots on vines who chattered nonstop about pointless things: “Do you think it’s going to be sunny or rainy fourteen Fridays from now?” “I’m not sure, but I love rectangles.” “I wonder what silence is.”

  There was no sign of the suzukis at first. Mrs. Fickletint was on guard on Oonie’s shoulder all the same, whispering instructions to navigate the route. And though back in the shallows, Zeb had told himself that rushing after his captain to check she was okay was a one-off, now he found himself anticipating her every move to make sure she didn’t come to any harm. Unseen by Oonie, Zeb yanked fallen branches out of her path so she didn’t trip up, pushed thorny undergrowth aside so she wouldn’t graze her legs, and even snapped a low-hanging vine in half because it was blocking her way. But when Oonie bumped into Zeb heaving away a rock (which was covered in moss, so definitely slippery), she flinched.

  “You’d better not be helping me, Zeb.”

  For a second, Zeb didn’t know how to respond, then he gave up worrying about it and simply said: “Don’t worry, I’m making things as difficult for you as I possibly can.”

  Oonie’s mouth twitched. She hadn’t been expecting that. And when, after an hour of walking, they came to a river, she let Zeb hold her arm to guide her across.

  They clambered up the bank on the other side together to find a whole grove of black flowers. The suzukis were taller than Zeb and Oonie, their petals were like open clams, and they were humming.

  “Phew,” Dollop panted. “The suzukis appear to be in a good mood today.”

  “You said there’d be one or two of them!” Mrs. Fickletint hissed. “Not a forest full!”

  “There’s been so much dark magic afoot, it’s been hard to juggle inner peace with household chores,” Dollop said. “Gardening here on Rickety Gramps has been rather put on the back burner. And you should see my ironing pile.…”

  He strode on through the flowers, and despite one hairy moment, when a particularly large suzuki stopped singing and snapped its petals shut inches from Zeb’s sneaker, the little group made it out the other side of the grove.

  Zeb looked up. The canopy blocked the sky, but he reckoned it was probably past midday now. He thought of Morg astride her bone dragon. How long before she found the Final Curtain? Would they make it there ahead of her if they managed to call a Crackledawn dragon? His mind jumped to Fox. She had faced Morg and her Midnights in Jungledrop, and beaten them, so he told himself that it would be no different now, that she and the Lofty Husks’ protection charms would be enough against Morg’s skeletons and ogre eels.

  But what Zeb did not realize was that Morg was stronger than ever now that she had a lead on the Ember Scroll. And though Fox Petty-Squabble had a phoenix tear, the magic inside it was slipping away fast. As its glow dimmed, the Midnights surrounding Cathedral Cave grew in power: The skeletons found another crack in the cave walls to jab their spears through, and the ogre eels stirred up waves so big they sent rocks tumbling. Again and again, the Lofty Husks recast their protection charms to seal the cave, but time was running out. Everyone inside that cave knew that unless a phoenix was summoned very soon, the end would surely come.

  The crew paused a while to eat some nuts Dollop had brought along with him, then the goblin hastened on again, deeper and deeper into the jungle. When the light began to fade, the trees parted a little way to reveal dozens of waterfalls rushing down from the rocks and undergrowth into a shimmering blue lagoon. And there, at the far end of this lagoon, stood an elephant.

  But this was no ordinary elephant.

  Trampletusk’s ears were so large they stretched down to the ground. And they weren’t gray and wrinkled, they were silver and wafer-thin, like butterfly wings, her tusks silver too. She was one of the most spectacular things he’d ever laid eyes on. Even the Stargold Wings around his neck seemed to flutter with anticipation. Oonie’s face shone with awe too. She couldn’t see the elephant like Zeb could, but she could taste the wonder; she could smell the magic hanging in the air.

  “Like breathing in a rainforest,” she murmured.

  The elephant looked up, and in a voice that seemed to be made of velvet, she said: “You’ve come for a memory, haven’t you?”

  Dollop led the group around the lagoon. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Trampletusk. I know you’re not a people person as such, but, well, the world is falling apart, and we need your help.”

  The elephant nodded. “Morg is back. I have seen the fear and panic in the memories of the Unmappers and Lofty Husks.”

  “We might be able to beat her,”
Oonie said, “but we’re going to need a Crackledawn dragon.”

  “A well-behaved one,” Zeb cut in. And then, to ensure the enchanted elephant didn’t get any ideas about Zeb being weak or anything, he added: “Because Mrs. Fickletint here is fifty-nine, and she doesn’t want a bumpy ride.”

  The chameleon threw him a haughty glare.

  “So, you need to play the Faraway’s first sunrise,” Trampletusk said.

  The crew nodded hopefully. They were so close to the elephant now, Zeb could see that her ears were actually transparent and it was the markings on these ears—glittering swirls and dots and flecks—that were silver. Zeb glanced at the trees behind Trampletusk. They were different from the others they had seen so far. These trunks were vast, and thousands of glass bottles hung down from ribbons wound round the branches. Zeb peered closer. Each bottle contained a wisp of silver light.

  Trampletusk followed Zeb’s gaze. “I am the guardian of Crackledawn’s memories. My ears are so large I hear everything that goes on in this kingdom.” She dipped her head toward the trees. “And each night, the memories drop from my ears into these bottles here.”

  Zeb watched the memories swirling, like curls of smoke, under the trees.

  “I can give you the memory you want,” Trampletusk said, “but I will need a memory to replace it to ensure the magic beneath these trees is not unbalanced. Because if you were to take away a memory as important as the very first sunrise, which gave light and life to the Faraway, and forget to replace it, then all the memories would vanish. A kingdom with no memories is vulnerable. It is easier to destroy. And with Morg in Crackledawn, we cannot take any chances.”

  Mrs. Fickletint cocked her head. “What sort of memory are you looking for?”

  But Trampletusk wasn’t looking at the chameleon. She was looking at Zeb. “You, boy from the Faraway. You have a memory as powerful as the very first sunrise.”