Fireborn

by Toby Forward

  “That’s nothing to do with it,” said Bee. “I didn’t choose to come here, I don’t have to stay.”

  “No, you didn’t. And you can go whenever you wish. I can get some clothes for you, now that you’re up and about. Where will you go?”

  Bee pulled the sheet tighter round her.

  “Don’t you want to stop me going?” she said.

  She wanted an argument and Flaxfold was being very annoying, not joining in.

  “We have no right to keep you here,” she said. “I wish you would stay. I’d like to get to know you. And there are things you could help us with. But if you won’t stay, you won’t.”

  Bee climbed back on the bed and sat on it wrapped up in the sheet.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  Flaxfold beamed at her.

  “It’s different things all at the same time. It’s an inn. And it’s my home. And it’s your home if you’d like it to be.”

  “That’s three things,” said Bee. “Is that all?”

  “You can stay as long as you like,” said Flaxfold.

  “I’ve got a home,” said Bee. “A proper home. I’m going there.”

  “To your parents?” asked Flaxfold.

  “What else do you think I meant?”

  “Home changes,” she answered. “I wasn’t sure.”

  Bee tucked the sheet under her legs.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

  “So long that I can hardly remember anywhere else.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No, not really.”

  Flaxfold pulled herself up out of the chair and picked up a small blue vase with stocks in it.

  “I need to change the water in these,” she said. “Can I get you anything else to eat?”

  Bee shook her head.

  “I’ll be back in a minute with your clothes,” she said.

  She put her hand into her apron and took out a small round mirror. She put it on the mantelpiece, where the flowers had been.

  “Before you go,” she said, “we ought to see what magic you can do now, after the fire. Just in case.”

  She closed the door carefully.

  Its feet only squelched on hard surfaces. On the grass it was silent.

  It liked to eat. It didn’t like travelling but it was drawn on towards the palace.

  It liked changing shape. Sometimes, even when it had just eaten, it ate again, just for the pleasure of making a new shape. Foxes were a good shape and they travelled faster. Rabbits were too weak. Weasels were good because they had sharp teeth and darted at rabbits. Best of all, and the one it kept coming back to, was the boy. Especially when it gave the boy a fox’s sense of smell and the weasel’s teeth.

  Frogs and slugs were still good to eat but it never used their shapes. Beetles tasted good and it liked the crunch of their skeletons and the soft pulp inside that coated the tongue and the roof of the mouth.

  It only made itself into a beetle once and quickly changed back. It had become accustomed to eyes and flesh. The beetle life scared it. So low to the ground, so blind, so scratchy, so relentlessly single in its purpose. Such small and concentrated pleasure. Beetles existed only to live. Even a frog felt the joy of water. Beetles felt no joy but moving forward, eating and attacking.

  It was mostly a fox when it saw the beetles. It stopped and flicked its tail. It hadn’t expected this. Not beetles.

  It turned and slunk away, disappointed into the new darkness. At least it could hunt and think of a new plan. One that didn’t have beetles in it.

  It trotted to its left, making more distance between itself and the black line of beetles. Lifting its head it saw the palace. It stopped. Listened. Sniffed. Two demands on its attention. The palace felt as though it was the right place. Something had been pulling it here ever since it had given up getting back into the inn. It really felt as though it was the palace. He could see that. The scent pulled him in a different direction. It could smell boy.

  It had only killed one boy so far. They were difficult to find alone. It wanted another. Keeping low to the ground he circled the scent. Delicate feet made no sound. It found a spot near to the trees where it was half-hidden. The moon had risen just above the line of the horizon. It could see the palace, with lights in the windows and blazing torches on the turrets. And, sitting, watching, waiting for something, the boy.

  Was a fox strong enough to kill the boy? It changed into a dog, the same one which had killed the little shepherd. Better. This boy was bigger though. And he was in the open. The little shepherd boy had been cornered and hadn’t put up much of a fight.

  It had an idea. It was its first ever proper plan of its own. Much better than just the plan of finding out what was calling it to Boolat. It shivered with pleasure and couldn’t prevent itself from making a little yelp.

  The boy’s head turned.

  It slunk back into the tree cover.

  The boy stared and then looked away again. After a moment he looked back. He was alerted now. It would have to be careful. Definitely not the dog. The plan was better anyway. It lay down, rolled on its back and breathed out. Twisting, it stood up, upright. A boy again. A boy could take another boy by surprise.

  It stepped out into the open. The boy looked back.

  It moved towards the boy.

  “Hello,” it said.

  Perry’s journey was over. He had reached the front of the line of beetles. Only it was no longer a line. It looked like a tadpole. The huge head bulged out and the tail flocked back, getting ever more narrow.

  The head was encamped outside the Palace of Boolat. The tail was still catching up. The advance guard of the beetle army had stopped half a mile before the palace. A lookout in the palace might have noticed a stain or a shadow on the road, a trick of the light, an effect of the clouds. Perry, having followed the beetles knew it for what it was.

  He thought of trying to move ahead of the army of beetles, to enter the palace and warn them. But now that it had arrived at its destination the army of beetles had become watchful. Perry had kept to high ground. In order to approach the palace he would need to come down, to break cover. As soon as he did the thick head of the tadpole rippled. A tendril grew out of it. A line of beetles, moving in his direction. Perry turned and ran. Looking back he saw the tendril hesitate then draw back, merging again with the mass of beetles.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  The day was ending now. Soon he would lose sight of the beetles in the darkness. He felt that they were concentrating their efforts on taking the palace. They would no more be bothered with him than they would with a rabbit or a fox.

  Perhaps.

  He didn’t want to take the chance.

  He moved further away, keeping high, keeping the palace on his left. He found a patch of clear open ground, high enough to observe the palace, empty enough to be able to see any line of beetles that might be headed his way.

  If he couldn’t save the whole palace at least he might be able to help any who escaped. And he could go back when it was over, and see if he could find Flaxfield or Cabbage or someone who could come and… And there his plans ran out. He had no idea what anyone could do against this clattering army.

  He sat and watched. A reluctant moon lifted itself into view.

  Perry thought he heard a noise behind him. He turned and looked. Something seemed to draw back into the trees. That was all right. It would be a fox. As long as it wasn’t beetles. Nothing could be worse than beetles.

  Flaxfold didn’t come back.

  The daylight drained away. The voices outside called goodbyes. Darkness and silence slid into the room. Bee let herself sink onto the bed where she lay on her side, tightly wrapped in the sheet. She wiped her eyes on the linen.

  She hated Flaxfold. The stupid old woman had given her questions she couldn’t answer.

  Did she want to look at herself?

  Did she want to go back to her parents?

  Did she wa
nt to stay in this lovely bedroom? So small, so white, so clean, so different from everything she had known at Slowin’s.

  Did she want to help the stupid woman to look for Slowin? Slowin was out of her life now. He could stay out. Helping the woman might bring him back and what good would that do?

  Biggest question of all. Could she still do magic?

  If she could, did she want to?

  If she couldn’t, could she live without it?

  If she couldn’t, who was she?

  So she lay and looked at the mirror, on its side on the mantelpiece.

  She could answer several questions at once. All she had to do was make the mirror rise by magic and come to her, bright side first. She could reach out and take it and, there you are, a magic girl looking at herself. What could be simpler?

  She rolled over and put her back to the fireplace.

  There was a knock at the door. Soft, repeated.

  Bee ignored it.

  It came again.

  If the old woman wanted to come in she could. This was her place, wasn’t it?

  After a pause the knock was repeated. No louder, no more insistent.

  This put Bee into a quandary. She was tired of being alone. She wanted company, but she wanted to be difficult. She didn’t want to be polite to her. She didn’t want to invite her in but she wanted her there.

  “I’ll come back another time,” said a voice. “If you’d like.”

  Bee sat up. It wasn’t Flaxfold.

  “Wait,” she said. “Who is it?”

  “Dorwin.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend. If you want one.”

  Bee snuggled back into bed. She pulled the sheet over her face so that only her eyes were showing.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Bee peeped at her over the sheet.

  She was younger that Flaxfold, older than Bee. A real grown-up.

  “May I come right in?” she asked.

  Bee’s yes was muffled by the sheet, but clear enough. Dorwin shrugged apologetically, as though she wasn’t welcome.

  “I’ve brought these.”

  She had clothes over her right arm and a plate in her left hand, and a lantern in her right hand.

  “Where shall I put them?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Dorwin kicked the door shut with her heel and approached the bed. She flapped her right arm.

  “Can you help?”

  “Put the plate on the table,” said Bee. “Then you’ll be able to work the clothes.”

  And that way Bee wouldn’t have to move the sheet away from her face to take the clothes from Dorwin.

  This done, the plate and the lantern on the table and the clothes on the bed, Dorwin hesitated, looking uncertain where to go.

  “I can sit on the bed,” she suggested.

  “The chair,” said Bee.

  They played a little game of who would speak next and Bee won.

  “Do you want me to pass you the plate?” asked Dorwin. “Are you hungry.”

  Bee was, but she couldn’t eat and hold the sheet over her face at the same time.

  “I’ll have it later,” she said.

  Bee won the second round of the game as well. She wanted to talk but Dorwin wanted to talk more.

  “Flaxfold’s a good person,” she said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “No, of course.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Dorwin. I live in the village. My father’s the blacksmith.”

  It was easy for Bee to listen to Dorwin. And it was easy for Dorwin to chatter on. The talk created a contact between the two of them. It wasn’t important talk. It was all the better for that. Everything with Flaxfold seemed so important, so urgent.

  “Do you like the room?” asked Dorwin when her flow of information slowed down. “I slept here for a week once. It’s one of the best rooms in the inn. Good view from the window. It’s not above the parlour so the talking doesn’t keep you awake. It’s the other side from the kitchen, so you don’t get cooking smells. And I never slept in a more comfortable bed before or since.”

  Bee sat up higher.

  “Why did you sleep here?” she asked.

  “I was ill,” said Dorwin. “Flaxfold made me better.”

  “Why?”

  “She does that.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “Yes. Perfectly.”

  Bee looked at the clothes on the bed. She couldn’t reach out and touch them without letting the sheet fall, so she left them there. They looked soft, comfortable.

  “Were other people ill at the same time?” she asked. “Like with the plague?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “That doesn’t happen,” said Bee. “You have to catch things from someone else.”

  “It was an accident, not a disease.”

  “Oh.”

  Despite what Dorwin had said there was a little noise from downstairs. The parlour must be filling up with people wanting a drink.

  “A boy found me,” said Bee.

  “Yes.”

  “He talked to me sometimes, when I was asleep.”

  “He came and tried.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Dorwin tried to explain about Cabbage and Flaxfield and Perry.

  “Is his name really Cabbage?” asked Bee.

  “It’s what he’s called.”

  “That’s not the same thing?”

  “No. You know about names though.”

  Bee looked sharply at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were an apprentice. You’re going to be a wizard. I don’t need to tell you about special names.”

  Bee lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  “I don’t know anything about names,” she said. “What was wrong with you, when you slept here?”

  “I had an accident. In the smithy.”

  Bee felt herself grow tense. She coughed and the back of her throat felt a burn of acid from her stomach.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you another time. Why don’t you eat? Here. Let me give you the plate.”

  “No. What happened?”

  “I shouldn’t have been in there. I was little. I wasn’t allowed in on my own. I went in anyway. You know what children are like.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve never been with children. I don’t know.”

  “No. Well, children don’t do as they’re told. I didn’t, and I went into the smithy. There was a special horseshoe hanging from the beam over the furnace. I wanted to play with it. I dragged a box over and stood on it. I could nearly reach it. Not quite. I stood on tiptoe, and still it was just out of reach. So I jumped.”

  Bee closed her eyes. She could see the horseshoe and the box. She could see the anvil. She could see the little girl jump up. She could see the furnace, hot and hungry.

  “Don’t say any more,” she said.

  “All right.”

  The silence was uncomfortable now. Dorwin stood and crossed to the bed. She sat and put her hand somewhere on the wrap of sheets that was Bee. The girl flinched. Dorwin did not try to move. After a while the sheets moved, Bee burrowed through, a hand appeared and found Dorwin’s hand. They sat in silence. The lantern glowed yellow. The wick needed trimming and a thin veil of soot hung above it.

  “Did it hurt much?” asked Bee.

  “More than I thought possible.”

  “That’s right.”

  She squeezed her hand.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “No not at all. I can’t even remember what it felt like.”

  “Where was it?”

  “My arm. The right one. I was lucky. When I fell I put out my hand to save myself. I fell towards the furnace and only my arm went in. It was enough to push me away.”

  “Not very lucky,” s
aid Bee.

  “It could have been worse,” said Dorwin and wished she could catch the words and take them back as soon as they were in the air.

  “Yes,” said Bee. “It could.”

  Dorwin lifted Bee’s hand to her lips and kissed it.

  “Don’t.”

  She pulled the hand away and hid it under the sheet.

  “I want you to go away now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Can I give you the food?”

  “Why do you keep on wanting to give me food? What’s the matter?”

  Dorwin tried to regain Bee’s hand. Bee wasn’t letting her so she stopped.

  “I want to do something to help,” she said. “And I can’t think of anything that I can do except feed you.”

  Bee laughed and took them both by surprise.

  “What are you going to do?” Asked Dorwin.

  “I’m going home.”

  “You’ve been very ill,” she said. “Is it a long journey?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I liked your parents. They were here.”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t know if you recognized them. Or if you were even awake.”

  Bee’s hand appeared again and she took Dorwin’s.

  “Let me see your arm,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I want to.”

  Dorwin pushed her sleeve back, above her elbow.

  “I can’t see.”

  “I’ll get the lantern.”

  Dorwin held the lantern while Bee leaned forward and looked at her arm. She trailed her fingers over the scarred flesh. She put her own arm out of the sheet and held it next to Dorwin’s.

  “They match,” she said.

  Dorwin was used to the appearance of her arm. The scars were older, calmer.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “All the time,” said Bee.

  “It will get less. It will go.”

  Bee said something that Dorwin couldn’t hear.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  She could just make out the words.

  “I’m like it all over,” said Bee. “You’re pretty.”

  Dorwin put her arms round the sheet and held Bee.

  “I want to see my face,” said the girl.

  “Not now.”

  Bee pushed her away, let the sheet fall and sat in just the light undershift Flaxfold had put on when she was asleep. Her arms and neck and shoulders were bare. Her face was turned to look at Dorwin.