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Authors: Alan Skinner
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commanded.
Touch’s hand was bright red. Milky blisters had already formed on the back of his hand. Cres felt like crying.
‘We didn’t bring anything! Oh, Touch! I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault. It’ll be OK. Hurts, though,’ Touch said bravely.
‘Now what?’ Cres asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied miserably. He stared at the flaming stone. ‘I didn’t realise what it was actually like. Did you see how fast the fire burned the handle? And the gloves? It’s . . .’
‘Frightening,’ Cres finished for him.
‘Nothing can break that stone.’ Touch was disconsolate. ‘We’ve failed, Cres. We won’t be bringing back the blue fire.’
‘It was a good idea, Touch. It really was.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? Oh well, there goes our chance of being famous.’ Touch sighed.
They sat, tired, discouraged and very hot. They were reluctant to give up and return to Forge but it didn’t look like they had much choice. For the moment, though, they were too depressed to do anything but sit and stare at the flames.
‘Well, what do we have here?’
Touch and Cres felt their hearts leap right out their bodies at the unexpected voice.
‘Friends of yours, Hazlitt?’ said another voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Relatives maybe, Edith. But friends? I doubt it,’ said the first voice.
Touch and Cres turned. In the entrance to the cave stood a man and a woman. They were tall – taller than most Myrmidots – but they were not dressed like any Myrmidots Touch and Cres knew. Both wore dark brown shirts, with dark green trousers and sturdy brown leather boots. Both carried large canvas bags draped over one shoulder.
‘But we’ve only just met,’ said the man as the couple walked into the cave, ‘and maybe, in time, we can call each other friend.’
The man and the woman stood in front of Touch and Cres and smiled down at them.
‘They look surprised,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps we should have knocked before rudely barging in on them.’
‘I’m sure we should have, my dear. It’s surprising how quickly one loses one’s manners when one is away from civilisation,’ the man replied.
‘We should introduce ourselves,’ said the woman. Her right hand rested on the man’s arm. ‘This is Hazlitt, and I’m Edith.’ She raised her hand and rested it delicately on her throat for a moment, before holding it out to Touch and Cres.
The apprentices scrambled to their feet. Myrmidots, like Muddles and Beadles, never shake hands and neither Touch nor Cres knew what to do with the hand being offered to them.
Touch cleared his throat. His left hand was nearest Cres, so he rested it on her arm and said in a croaky voice, ‘This is Cres and I’m Touch.’ He laid his hand on his chest, and then held it out straight in front of him as Edith had done.
‘They’re so sweet!’ Edith cried. ‘Touch and Cres. What delightful names!’ She took Touch’s extended hand between both her own and squeezed gently. Touch winced. ‘And so polite, Hazlitt!’ she purred. ‘It’s a relief to know that young people are well brought up, even in the most remote place.’
‘You seem to be hurting him, Edith. Let go of his hand now,’ said Hazlitt.
Edith opened her hands and looked at Touch’s.
‘Oh, the poor boy! He’s been burned, Hazlitt! How terrible!’
‘So he has, so he has. We should put something on it to make it better,’ said Hazlitt. He opened his pack and rummaged. ‘Ah, just the thing,’ he said, pulling out a small white jar. ‘Let me see your hand, Touch.’
Before Touch could move, Hazlitt was holding his wrist and examining his hand.
‘That’s a nasty burn. I expect the blue fire did that. You’re very lucky, that it didn’t burn your hand to a cinder.’
Hazlitt scooped a dollop of cream and let it drop on to Touch’s hand. Edith reached over and very gently spread the cream until it covered the burns.
‘There, that will keep it clean and stop it hurting,’ said Edith.
‘Thank
Touch’s hand was bright red. Milky blisters had already formed on the back of his hand. Cres felt like crying.
‘We didn’t bring anything! Oh, Touch! I’m so sorry.’
‘Not your fault. It’ll be OK. Hurts, though,’ Touch said bravely.
‘Now what?’ Cres asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied miserably. He stared at the flaming stone. ‘I didn’t realise what it was actually like. Did you see how fast the fire burned the handle? And the gloves? It’s . . .’
‘Frightening,’ Cres finished for him.
‘Nothing can break that stone.’ Touch was disconsolate. ‘We’ve failed, Cres. We won’t be bringing back the blue fire.’
‘It was a good idea, Touch. It really was.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? Oh well, there goes our chance of being famous.’ Touch sighed.
They sat, tired, discouraged and very hot. They were reluctant to give up and return to Forge but it didn’t look like they had much choice. For the moment, though, they were too depressed to do anything but sit and stare at the flames.
‘Well, what do we have here?’
Touch and Cres felt their hearts leap right out their bodies at the unexpected voice.
‘Friends of yours, Hazlitt?’ said another voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Relatives maybe, Edith. But friends? I doubt it,’ said the first voice.
Touch and Cres turned. In the entrance to the cave stood a man and a woman. They were tall – taller than most Myrmidots – but they were not dressed like any Myrmidots Touch and Cres knew. Both wore dark brown shirts, with dark green trousers and sturdy brown leather boots. Both carried large canvas bags draped over one shoulder.
‘But we’ve only just met,’ said the man as the couple walked into the cave, ‘and maybe, in time, we can call each other friend.’
The man and the woman stood in front of Touch and Cres and smiled down at them.
‘They look surprised,’ said the woman. ‘Perhaps we should have knocked before rudely barging in on them.’
‘I’m sure we should have, my dear. It’s surprising how quickly one loses one’s manners when one is away from civilisation,’ the man replied.
‘We should introduce ourselves,’ said the woman. Her right hand rested on the man’s arm. ‘This is Hazlitt, and I’m Edith.’ She raised her hand and rested it delicately on her throat for a moment, before holding it out to Touch and Cres.
The apprentices scrambled to their feet. Myrmidots, like Muddles and Beadles, never shake hands and neither Touch nor Cres knew what to do with the hand being offered to them.
Touch cleared his throat. His left hand was nearest Cres, so he rested it on her arm and said in a croaky voice, ‘This is Cres and I’m Touch.’ He laid his hand on his chest, and then held it out straight in front of him as Edith had done.
‘They’re so sweet!’ Edith cried. ‘Touch and Cres. What delightful names!’ She took Touch’s extended hand between both her own and squeezed gently. Touch winced. ‘And so polite, Hazlitt!’ she purred. ‘It’s a relief to know that young people are well brought up, even in the most remote place.’
‘You seem to be hurting him, Edith. Let go of his hand now,’ said Hazlitt.
Edith opened her hands and looked at Touch’s.
‘Oh, the poor boy! He’s been burned, Hazlitt! How terrible!’
‘So he has, so he has. We should put something on it to make it better,’ said Hazlitt. He opened his pack and rummaged. ‘Ah, just the thing,’ he said, pulling out a small white jar. ‘Let me see your hand, Touch.’
Before Touch could move, Hazlitt was holding his wrist and examining his hand.
‘That’s a nasty burn. I expect the blue fire did that. You’re very lucky, that it didn’t burn your hand to a cinder.’
Hazlitt scooped a dollop of cream and let it drop on to Touch’s hand. Edith reached over and very gently spread the cream until it covered the burns.
‘There, that will keep it clean and stop it hurting,’ said Edith.
‘Thank
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