Fire over Swallowhaven (8 page)

“Whatever.” Esmeralda sighed as the skyboat came to a halt.

Jack got out his rebec and started to play the tune of the phoenix song from the night before. It was rather jolly, and soon Esmeralda and Trundle were clapping along again and Ishmael was dancing on the spot as he peeled potatoes and boiled up some water on the stove.

“That’s quite a dance you’ve got going there, Ishmael,” Jack said.

“It is that, to be sure,” said Ishmael. “It’s an old hornpipe me great-grandpappy taught to me when I was just a nippy little nipper—it’s always danced to that there melody you’re playing, me lad.” He stirred some steaming sauce. “It’s called Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy.”

Trundle sat bolt upright. “It’s called
what
?”

“Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy,” Ishmael repeated, his feet hopping and bopping and flipping and flapping as if they had a life of their own.

Jack’s music came to a sudden halt, and all three of them stared at Ishmael.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Jack said. “We’re in a place called Slatterkin’s Reef—and Ishmael here is dancing a dance called Lord Slatterkin’s Fancy.” He looked at Jack and Esmeralda. “Anyone notice a strange coincidence?”

“Coincidence be blowed!” said Esmeralda. “It’s the Fates, that’s what this is! The Fates are showing us the way out of here. Ishmael, start the dance again from the beginning!” Her eyes gleamed. “Watch closely, everyone. See exactly what he does.”

Ishmael began to prance about, chattering along to himself as he bounded around the skyboat. “Five hops left and round ye go, two hops right and do-si-do! Three hops forward, one hop back, with a wiggle and a waggle, go through the crack.”

Esmeralda stood up and stared at the channels. “Fifth to the left,” she said, pointing at one of the dark holes. “That’s the one! Trundle—man the treadles, there’s a good fellow. We’re going to follow the steps of this dance, and I’ll bet you every prickle on your back that it’ll lead us out of here before we know it!”

And so, with Ishmael March calling out the steps as he danced, and Jack bowing the rebec and Trundle pedaling for all he was worth and Esmeralda
yelling directions, the
Thief in the Night
made its way through the maze of tunnels and causeways and channels and passages.

The fifth channel curved around and ended in a fork.

“Two hops right,” said Esmeralda, pointing to the right-hand fork. “That way!”

“What’s a do-si-do?” asked Trundle.

The channel they were in tilted abruptly upward then dropped down again.

“That is.” Jack laughed.

Suddenly they were confronted with one passageway that seemed to lead forward, and another that threatened to take them straight back to where they had started.

“One hop back,” said Trundle. “We need to follow the tunnel that looks like the
wrong
one!”

“Now you’re getting it,” said Esmeralda.

They headed into the channel. After a short
distance, it began to zigzag violently from side to side and actually ended up turning over itself in a hairpin bend and sending them back the way they had wanted to go all along.

“Now that’s what I call a wiggle and a waggle,” said Esmeralda. “Lawks, this is working!”

On and on they went, always choosing the tunnels and passageways suggested by the steps of Ishmael’s crazy dance, until—quite suddenly, it seemed—they pushed through a narrow gap between two huge boulders and burst out into bright afternoon sunlight.

Three hearty cheers echoed across the skies of the Sundered Lands.

They were through the reef!

T
rundle stopped pedaling and Jack stopped playing as the
Thief in the Night
floated clear of the great black reef.

Only Ishmael seemed unaware of their success. His arms and legs and ears worked furiously as he danced on, his eyes closed in concentration and his mouth spread in a wide, fixed toothy grin.

“Uh…Ishmael?” Esmeralda called to him.

“Swing your bottom through the air, leap out
into empty air…,” panted the frantic hare.

“Ishmael!”
Esmeralda hollered.

“Yes…your…highmostness…?”

“We’re out of the reef. You can stop now.”

His limbs stopped flailing and his huge eyes popped open. “Now that’s a pity,” he said. “I was just getting into me stride.” His eyes widened and he pointed over the prow. “Drop me drawers and paint me backside blue! What’s that?”

The other three had already spotted it. A solitary island was floating, lonely and forlorn, in the distance—and rising from the middle of it was a tall, cone-shaped mountain.

“That, my friend,” declared Jack, “is the land of the legendary phoenix bird!” He let out a relieved laugh. “I’ll eat my rebec and bow, rosin and all, if it isn’t!”

Esmeralda wetted a finger and lifted it to test the air. “And there’s a fine strong wind to take us
there,” she said. “Jack, unfurl the sails. We’re away to journey’s end!”

It wasn’t long before the sail was up and the
Thief in the Night
was skimming jauntily through the clear cold skies. Trundle’s elation began to dwindle a little as the lone island came closer. It looked like a miserable, desolate place: a barren land of gray rocks and pale, scrubby grasses and dead trees. The mountain reared upward, its wrinkled sides streaked with yellow stains. The only sign of life anywhere was the yellowish smoke that clung about the high, broken-edged cone.

“Are we absolutely
sure
this is the right place?” Trundle wondered aloud. He couldn’t quite imagine the glorious and marvelous phoenix bird choosing to
live on such a glum and lifeless lump of rock.

“The feather seems to think so,” Jack replied. Trundle looked over his shoulder. The feather was writhing and straining and pulling at the nail that held it as if desperate to get to the island.

“But it’s so…so…
bleak,
” Trundle said.

“That’s probably to keep tourists away,” suggested Esmeralda. “I expect the phoenix was sick and tired of people constantly bothering him, telling him how beautiful and marvelous he was and asking for his autograph and so on. That’s probably why he came here in the first place—to get away from all the razzmatazz.”

Jack nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sure it’ll look quite different inside the cone of the mountain. This is just camouflage. His nest will be utterly gorgeous and completely fabulous—just you wait and see!”

“Shall we fly straight up and in there, then?” asked Trundle.

“No, not at all,” said Jack. “That would be most rude. We’ll make landfall lower down the mountain and walk the rest of the way. We don’t want to annoy him by plopping uninvited right in his lap, do we?”

“Especially not when we want him to tell us how to find the Crown of Fire,” added Esmeralda. “Best keep on his good side, you know?”

The dismal island gradually came closer.

“Er, can anyone smell something…odd?” asked Trundle, sniffing the chill air. He wrinkled his snout. “Something not particularly pleasant?”

“Don’t look at me,” declared Ishmael. “I didn’t do it!”

“I think it’s coming from the island,” said Trundle. He sniffed again. “In fact, I’m sure it is. Pooh! What
is
it? Stinks like rotten eggs.”

“I think it’s sulfur,” said Jack. “Those yellowy clouds and those yellow streaks down the sides of the mountain are probably caused by escaping gases.
It’s not very nice, I’ll grant you, but I don’t think it’s harmful.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Esmeralda.

The unpleasant reek got gradually stronger as they sailed nearer to the island. By the time the
Thief in the Night
came in to settle lightly on the stony ground of a ridge about a third of the way up the mountain, the stench was almost overpowering.

Fortunately, Jack found a piece of cloth, which he managed to tear into strips for them to tie over their muzzles and at least keep out the worst of the foul odor.

Trundle stood at the mast, using a knife to loosen the nail that was still holding the berserk feather as it struggled and fought to get free. As the nail came away, he
just managed to snatch hold of the end of the feather before it zoomed off. Clutching it tightly, he stepped over the bow and joined the other three on the mountain. The ground felt oddly warm underfoot.

“All right, then,” said Esmeralda. “Follow me, boys. And remember—when we meet the phoenix, be polite and well behaved and sensible. Don’t get all gushy and idiotic just because he’s legendary and stuff. Oh, and Ishmael?”

“Yes, your worshipness?”

“Dial down the loony a tad, if you can, please. And no mention of wild bird recipes, got me?”

“Right you are!” chirruped Ishmael with a big grin. “You can trust old Ishmael to pack the giddy goat away with the monkeys in the kiddies’ puzzle box, to be sure, you can!”

“Hmm,” said Esmeralda. “If you say so. Trundle, keep an eye on him, will you? And if he looks like he’s going to say something embarrassing, that strip of
cloth over his nose will work a treat as a gag, if you catch my drift.”

And so they began the uphill trek.

It wasn’t much fun. The mountain was steep and the ground underfoot was loose and slithery, and every now and then a stone or two would slip away under their feet and go rolling and rumbling down in a cloud of gray smoke.

Here and there, sad, broken stumps of trees jutted out of the ground at curious angles, their leafless branches seeming to claw feebly at the sky. The occasional tuft of thin, wiry grass rustled in the slow-moving air, but there was no sight or sound of any animal life. As they climbed, they did their best to avoid the streaky smears of bubbling yellow sulfur that ran thick and stinky down the mountain’s barren flanks.

If Esmeralda was right, and the phoenix had chosen this island to keep people away, then he’d
certainly picked the perfect spot. In fact, the only enthusiastic member of the party was the feather. It became more and more excited as they climbed, until Trundle was only just able to keep hold of it.

“What’s that noise?” asked Jack, pausing and lifting a paw. “Do you hear it? An odd rumbling kind of noise.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Ishmael. “I didn’t do it!”

Jack was right. Now that Trundle stopped and listened, he too was aware of the strange sound: a rolling, grumbling, wheezing noise that seemed to be coming from the top of the mountain. More than anything else, it reminded him of someone sawing logs with a blunt and rusty saw.

Grumble-rumble—wheeeeeeeze—grumblerumble—wheeeeeeze
.

There was a slow rhythm to the rumbling and grumbling that was very familiar, except that Trundle couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

They carried on climbing. The curious noise grew louder and more insistent. The feather danced and cavorted in Trundle’s paw.

At last they were at the rim of the cone, and the rhythmic refrain was all around them.

Grumble-rumble—wheeeeeeeze—grumblerumble—wheeeeeeze
.

Trundle stared down into the huge, cauldron-shaped hollow. He had been hoping—expecting, in fact—to see something unutterably wonderful, but all that seemed to be down there was swirling clouds of stinky yellow smoke that made his eyes water and tickled in his throat.