Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits by Peter Dickinson, Robin McKinley Read Free Book Online Page B

back to. . . . Careful, m’lord! She’ll bite, ’cos she don’t know not to. Get ’er out for you, shall I?ʺ
    Miss Wells had managed to keep half an eye on her charge as he nosed cautiously round the room. The obvious danger came from the log fire burning in the enormous open hearth. It was piled surprisingly high, even for a dull, chilly April afternoon, but so far the earl had been more interested in the mass of other attractions in the room, all stowed as neatly as if in the cabin of a careful sailor. His latest find had been a small crate, adapted into an animal cage. She watched briefly while Mr. Moffard opened it and fished out a fox cub for the earl to look at and touch, and then turned to the diaries. There was almost a shelf of them, in different shapes and sizes; each covered two or three years. She opened the earliest and was immediately enthralled. Every major tree in the wood seemed to have its own entry, with a number, a code for its location, and then a record of its progress through the year: measurement of girth, first bud, leafing, flowering, general health, creatures using it to nest and roost, loss of branches and other damage (a close-range blast from a shot-gun to an ash in one instance) and so on. She pulled out a diary forty years on to see what had happened to the ash, and found that it was now dead all down one side. Another twenty and it was gone, apart from an entry recording the fungi on its stump.
    By this time she could hardly think for excitement. She knew of no other record in the country remotely resembling this in completeness of detail. She glanced up to check if Mr. Moffard was yet free and saw that he was putting the cub back in its cage. As he came towards her an oddness struck her. Her heart sank.
    ÊºThese are quite extraordinary, Mr. Moffard,ʺ she told him. ʺBut . . . but . . . I mean, it’s been over ninety years, and they’re all in the same handwriting.ʺ
    ÊºAh, no, ma’am. Just the two of us, me an’ me uncle. Spittin’ image of ’im, I am, folk tell me, an’ it’s the same with the writing. Remarkable long life ’e lived, too. Born ’tween the last day of seventeen ninety-nine, ’e used to tell folk, an’ the first of eighteen ’undred an’ and nowt, and din’t—ʺ
    ÊºThat’s extraordinary, Mr. Moffard! So was I! A hundred years later, of course, but between the last—ʺ
    There was a stillness in the room, a sudden surge of tension, enough to startle Miss Wells into silence and a quick check round the room. She gasped, suppressed the automatic shout of warning and rushed towards the fireplace. The earl was standing actually inside the chimney breast, having worked his way in between the glowing mass of embers and the side wall of the chimney, and was now leaning forward over the fire to crane up into the dark cavern of the chimney above. She reached in, grasped his arm and dragged him out.
    ÊºOh, but please—ʺ he began.
    At that moment her fears seemed to be justified. A glowing mass slid down the chimney and landed in the heart of the fire. Flames blazed up around it, too bright to look at. They settled. The mass shook itself and became a distinct shape, which rose and stepped forward onto the hearth. Miss Wells found herself staring at a bird about the size of a farmyard cock, with apparently normal avian plumage, except that it was a brighter, fierier orange-yellow than she would have imagined possible.
    The earl turned to her, earnest-faced.
    ÊºWelly, you mustn’t tell anyone,ʺ he commanded. ʺIt’s a secret.ʺ
    ÊºNo, no, of course not,ʺ she muttered, still staring.
    ÊºThat’s the Phoenix, that is,ʺ said Mr. Moffard calmly. ʺSeems ’e’s wanting for to meet you.ʺ

    Summer 1990
    ÊºWe been makin’ a game between us, Welly and me, when you’d get it,ʺ said Dave. ʺShe said as it wouldn’t be that