Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright Page

  PHOENIX

  HELLHOUND

  FIREWORM

  SALAMANDER MAN

  FIRST FLIGHT

  ALSO BY

  Robin McKinley and Peter Dickinson

  Water: Tales of Elemental Spirits

  ★ ʺMesmerizing stories. . . . The writing is lyrical, and the characterizations are remarkably well developed. . . . Emotions run the gamut—from fear and courage to love and joy. . . . A bountiful collection for fantasy lovers.ʺ

  —Booklist, starred review

  ★ ʺEnchanting tales . . . a consistently compelling, rhythmic tone. . . . These creative interpretations brim with suspenseful, chilling and wonderfully supernatural scenes.ʺ

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  ʺTwo generally brilliant writers alternate first-rate tales. . . . The masterfully written stories all feature distinct, richly detailed casts and settings. . . . There’s plenty here to excite, enthrall, and move even the pickiest readers.ʺ

  —School Library Journal

  ʺMcKinley and Dickinson are each justly celebrated for fantasy writing. . . . Readers versed in these writers’ work will recognize familiar themes and references; newcomers will find scope for imagination; and all will be richly rewarded.ʺ

  —The Horn Book

  For Jessica and Karen

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group. Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England. Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.). Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd). Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Text copyright © 2009 by Robin McKinley and Peter Dickinson. All rights reserved. This

  book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-13385-9

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  PHOENIX

  PETER DICKINSON

  Summer 1990

  Ellie came into the story very late on. It happened because she was oddly fascinated by the wood. Not that it was very different to look at from any of the several patches of woodland in the enormous grounds of the great country house, some of them really big—forests almost—others no more than a couple of dozen trees. This one was in between, lying in a wide dip in the rolling parkland, on one side of the picnic area, with the house itself in a similar dip on the other side.

  Ellie, as usual, finished her lunch long before the others, and rose.

  ʺWhere are you off to?ʺ said her mother.

  ʺCan I go and have a look at that wood?ʺ

  ʺWhat about it?ʺ

  Her brothers glanced up from their Game Boys.

  ʺIt’s a wood,ʺ said Jim. ʺThat’s enough for Ellie.ʺ

  ʺLots of mouldy old trees,ʺ said Bob.

  ʺIt looks interesting,ʺ said Ellie. ʺI want to know what it is. I think there’s a notice board by the gate.ʺ

  ʺOh, all right,ʺ said her mother. ʺStay in sight. Don’t be too long. I’ll wait for you here.ʺ

  The notice saidPRIVATE

  Dave’s Wood

  Conservation Area

  Nature trails 2-5 p.m., week-ends only. Tickets at East Gate.

  School parties by arrangement. Call 731 4492

  Ellie made a note of the number.

  The gate was locked. There was a solid-looking fence, high as a man, running in either direction. She walked along it to the right, peering into the darkness under the trees. The wood was full of bird-song. Apart from that, she couldn’t see anything to make it special for anyone else, but, yes, some of the trees did seem to be really old, and for her that was deeply fascinating. It made her skin crawl to think how long they had stood there while people had come and gone. As the fence curved away she looked back to the picnic area, where Dad and the boys were getting to their feet. Mum was looking towards her. Ellie waved. Mum waved back and settled to her book. That was all right. She’d be happy to sit there reading all afternoon. It was Dad and her brothers who wanted to do stuff. Ellie walked on.

  She was watching a jay hunt for grubs along a dead branch when the yobs caught her. She worked out later that they must have seen her coming from some way off and lain in wait for her, and then she’d got it dead right for them, dead wrong for herself. She’d actually stopped at a place where a kink in the line of the fence hid her from the picnic area. The first she knew about them was the jay’s wild alarm-cackle, and then a tap on her shoulder.

  ʺHi, babe,ʺ said a boy’s voice, trying to sound like a man’s.

  Her heart bounced. She started to turn. A hand clamped across her mouth as she tried to scream. She bit it. The boy cursed, but merely shifted his grip so she couldn’t bite then grabbed her right wrist and twisted the arm up behind her back.

  ʺGrab her pack, then,ʺ he muttered. ʺWhat you waiting for?ʺ

  Another boy—so there were two of them—started pulling the shoulder-strap of her satchel down her left arm. She wrestled with them, sobbing, trying to kick out, trip one of them up somehow.

  ʺStop that, you lot! Lay off!ʺ said a different kind of voice. A kid’s too, but even and confident. It seemed to come from the other side of the fence, over on her left now after the struggle.

  A moment of startled silence. A snarl of curses cut short by the flare of a photoflash, bright in the corner of her eye. Ellie sensed the sudden uncertainty in her captors’ grip and wrenched her head free and yelled, gulped breath, and yelled again at the top of her voice.

  The hands let go of her. By the time she’d turned to face them, the kids who’d attacked her were scuttling away, holding arms in front of their faces.

  Shuddering and sick, she turned again. A boy was watching her from the other side of the fence. He looked younger than she was, somewhere about ten, and concerned for her but extraordinarily calm, as if what had just happened was something he dealt with every day.

  ʺYou all right, miss?ʺ he said. ʺYou got someone with you?ʺ

  ʺMy . . . my . . .ʺ

  An absurd apprehension overcame her that her mother had heard the scream and was now running down the path towards the wood. Please not! It was all right now. If she found out . . . and Dad would be even worse. . . .

  She darted away from the fence, far enough
to see. No, she was still reading, and didn’t even look up. Still trembling, Ellie came back to the fence, noticing now the expensive-looking camera slung round the boy’s neck. He was a short but solid-looking kid with steady, dark brown eyes.

  ʺWow!ʺ she said. ʺLucky for me you were there! With that, too!ʺ

  Her voice came out as a gasping whisper.

  ʺReckon so,ʺ he said calmly. ʺPhotographin’ that jay you was watching. Wonderful thing, that camera. You goin’ to be all right, miss? Keep an eye out for you, shall I, till you’re back with your folk?ʺ

  ʺOh . . . yes. Yes, I suppose so. I’ll be all right. . . . I’m fine. . . . Er . . . how do I come on a nature trail? Is it just schools, or can anybody . . . ?ʺ

  ʺBest you call Welly. Tell ’er about you, shall I? Got the number? Give us a name, then?ʺ

  ʺMe? I’m Ellie. What’s yours?ʺ

  ʺDave. Welly and Ellie. She’ll like that.ʺ

  ʺIs this your wood?ʺ

  ʺName runs in the family, manner of speaking. But you call Welly. Good-bye then, miss.ʺ

  He nodded to her and turned away.

  In a way the strangeness of the encounter was a help, for as she walked slowly back towards the picnic area, Ellie found herself puzzling about it, instead of living over and over again the horror of what had happened. What a funny kid! It wasn’t just his calmness and assurance, the way he’d dealt with those louts, or the very odd way he’d put everything he said, or his accent—she wasn’t good at accents, but she was pretty sure he was English, only talking the sort of English you might hear a couple of old guys, real country people, talking in a village shop. But underneath all those surface things something stranger yet, far stranger.

  Her mother was still reading when she reached the picnic area, and closed her book with obvious reluctance, marking the place with a parking ticket. ʺYour hair’s a bit of a mess, darling. Was it as interesting as you hoped?ʺ

  ʺThey do nature trails. I’d love to go on one. Can we come again?ʺ

  ʺI expect so. The boys are mad on that stupid railway.ʺ

  Ellie called the number that evening, as soon as she’d finished her homework. A woman’s voice answered. It sounded a little shaky.

  ʺHello?ʺ

  ʺI’m supposed to ask for Welly.ʺ

  ʺSpeaking. And you must be Ellie. You want to come on a nature trail?ʺ

  ʺIf that’s all right.ʺ

  ʺWell, so many people ask. . . . Is there anything you particularly want to look at?ʺ

  ʺOh . . . I’m interested in the birds and animals, of course, but really it’s the trees. You’ve got some lovely old ones, haven’t you?ʺ

  ʺIndeed, yes. In that case . . . it’ll have to be in the morning, so get here as early as you can. We do parties in the afternoons. Just call me the evening before.ʺ

  ʺThat’s wonderful, if you’re sure. Oh, wait, please. I wanted to say thank you to Dave. He was terrific! I’d have been in a real mess without him.ʺ

  ʺYes, he told me. I’m thankful he was around. I’m afraid you can’t talk to him now—he’s trying to photograph an owl. But I’ll tell him. Oh, just one thing. Did you tell your parents what happened?ʺ

  ʺEr, no, I thought . . . but I suppose . . . I mean, those boys might—ʺ

  ʺThat’s all right. I called the security people and they picked them up at the gate. They’ll deal with it. They may want Dave’s photograph, but he says your face is completely hidden. With luck you won’t be involved. But perhaps you’d better bring your mother at least as far as the gate this time, so that she can decide for herself if we’re safe people to leave you with. The tour takes about three hours, tell her.ʺ

  ʺAll right. You’ll say thank you to Dave for me, won’t you?ʺ

  ʺOf course.ʺ

  Welly and Dave were waiting for her at the gate into the wood. Welly was in an electric wheel-chair, an old woman with white hair and wrinkled and blotchy skin. She had a really nice smile. Ellie couldn’t guess how old she was—older, she thought, than either of her own grannies. Welly’s hands trembled slightly all the time, but her eyes were bright with life. Dave seemed just the same as before, about ten, a bit short for that age, but stockily built without being fat, and with that strange, calm look as if nothing that happened was ever going to faze him. They all shook hands.

  ʺThis is extremely good of you,ʺ said Mum. ʺWe bought a ticket at the gate. Two pounds. It didn’t seem nearly enough to pay for your time. You said three hours, Ellie told me.ʺ

  ʺOur time is our own, and we can do what we wish with it. I assure you, Mrs. Ford, it’ll be a pleasure. We are both passionate about our wood, and Ellie seems really interested. I hope she can stay the whole three hours.ʺ

  ʺYes, of course, if that’s really all right. I’ve made up a picnic for her.ʺ

  ʺWe wouldn’t have let her starve, you know.ʺ

  Mum laughed uncertainly. Ellie guessed that she didn’t know what to make of Welly, any more than Ellie did of Dave. But it was only twenty minutes to the library, so she’d get over two hours’ book-choosing and book chat. And everyone was happy.

  ʺDave will take you round,ʺ said Welly. ʺWe’ve got two parties this afternoon, and I get tired stupidly soon these days.ʺ

  It wasn’t a trail at all. They left the marked path almost at once and checked the whole wood out, almost tree by tree. The birds and animals seemed not to notice them, even when they climbed an immense old oak to which Dave had attached steps and handholds so that he could keep an eye on a bat colony that roosted in the hollow of its trunk, as well as the nest of a green woodpecker in a rotted limb. Astonishingly, the bird stayed on its nest, untroubled by the flash, with a chick’s head poking up beside its wing, while Ellie took several photographs.

  ʺUsed to me,ʺ Dave explained.

  Unlike normal guides, he talked very little, just showed her things and let her decide for herself, though he answered her questions willingly enough, for instance when she asked how long the bat colony had been there.

  ʺLet’s see now,ʺ he said slowly. ʺGreat storm, eighteen ninety-seven, that’s what took ’er top out. Give ’er time to rot ’ollow, forty, fifty year, maybe. An’ the bats were there, definite, come nineteen seventy, and maybe twenty year earlier.

  ʺDessay it’ll be in the diaries,ʺ he added after a pause, as if by way of explanation that he hadn’t been working it out from memory.

  ʺI trust you’ve had a good time,ʺ said Welly, when they returned to the cottage in the clearing near the middle of the wood, where they’d left her over two hours before.

  ʺOh, it was wonderful!ʺ said Ellie. ʺI wish it had gone on for ever! And you’ve got two parties this afternoon. That’s six hours.ʺ

  ʺParties don’t get three hours,ʺ said Dave.

  Welly paused from ladling stew into three bowls and looked at him.

  ʺShe’d do,ʺ he said. ʺGiven she’s willin’.ʺ

  Welly returned to her ladling. She seemed not to notice the way her hands trembled. Dave carried the bowls to the table.

  ʺBest you sit there,ʺ he told Ellie. ʺJust let old Vick take a sniff—she won’t ’urt. Likes to know who’s what, an’ she don’t see much no longer. All right, girl!ʺ

  Ellie sat. An old spaniel heaved herself up from beside the stove, limped across and sniffed at the hand Ellie offered.

  ʺVick the Fourth, she is,ʺ said Dave as the dog went back to her snooze. ʺ’Nother name as runs in the family.ʺ

  That sounded like a private joke. Ellie didn’t get it.

  ʺTake your jersey off if you want to, my dear,ʺ said Welly. ʺI’m afraid I need it warmer than most people can stand. Now, you can have your picnic if you prefer, but this is very good. Dave makes a lovely stew. The rabbits are out of the wood.ʺ

  Rabbit stew! More and more Ellie felt she was in some kind of dream. Mum could do without cooking any more than she had to, so mostly at home they ate microwaved stuff out of packets. Mum would have been horrified by the mere idea of rabbit
, too. But here she was with her mouth already watering at the smell, in this wonderful old cottagy room with its log fire burning on the huge open hearth and its Aga and its long-lived-in feel, and this strange, strange couple.

  Welly spun her chair deftly back to the table. Dave took a large bib out of a drawer and tied it round her neck, then sat opposite Ellie and hacked three chunks of bread from what looked like a home-made loaf.

  ʺNow,ʺ said Welly, ʺyou’re right. Not everyone that calls and asks to visit us gets this kind of treatment. The fact is that we have been looking for someone like you, to help us. This wood is rather special. You’ll have seen at the gate that it’s a conservation area, but there are plenty of those these days. What makes it special is that it has been one now for almost a hundred years, and, uniquely, diaries have been kept of everything that happens in the wood, including an annual tree census and a five-year census of all the wild creatures that live here. It is now time for both. I can no longer do my share, and Dave can’t do it all, so we need a helper. We could no doubt find one by advertising, but that would mean an adult and there are various things against that. They’d probably have ideas of their own, rather than being content to do it our way—ʺ

  ʺNever work level along of a kid,ʺ said Dave, ʺ’lowing I might maybe know best. An’ the birds an’ animals, they’re used to me—saw that, didn’t you? You won’t bother ’em, neither, not like a grown man’s going to.ʺ

  ʺThat’s certainly the case,ʺ said Welly. ʺIt makes the task so much easier if the creatures don’t keep hiding from you. But at the same time, any helper has to know what she’s looking at, as you appear to do—ʺ

  ʺKnew a beech from an ’ornbeam,ʺ said Dave.