Emily Rodda - The Third Door

As they squeezed onto the end of a bench, those further along made room for them in friendly fashion. A plump, cheery woman sitting on the other side of the table pushed a metal platter towards them. The platter was heaped with wooden skewers threaded with grilled vegetables and chunks of meat.

‘New around here, aren’t you?’ the woman asked, as the brothers thanked her. ‘Heard there was work to be had, I daresay? Well, you heard true. A week will see the pipeline finished, but there’ll still be plenty of cleaning up to do after that, and good hands are always welcome. It’s not everyone has the stomach to work out here. Tuck in!’

The food was wonderful. The meat was spicy and tender, like nothing Rye had ever tasted before. Juice ran down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand without a thought for Weld manners.

‘Oh, very good!’ Dirk mumbled with his mouth full.

‘Just what I was saying,’ said the little man beside him. ‘They’ve done us proud today. Best bit of hog I’ve ever eaten.’

Dirk and Rye froze, their cheeks bulging. Sholto carefully put his skewer down.

The woman laughed heartily. ‘They think you mean old-style bloodhog, Sol!’ She leaned across the table and patted Dirk’s hand. ‘It’s the new breed, lovely,’ she explained kindly. ‘Descended from wild bloodhogs, they say, but bred and raised in Riverside. You’d have passed fields full of them on your way upriver—didn’t you notice? No horns, no nasty tempers, and flesh as sweet as a hoji nut!’

Dirk nodded weakly. He swallowed what was in his mouth and quickly drained the beaker of ale that a sweating boy in a long, grubby apron had set down before him.

The joke of the strangers who thought they had eaten bloodhog spread around the table. Soon everyone was chortling and taunting the newcomers. Rye blushed and Sholto looked down his nose, but Dirk grinned broadly, lifted a fresh beaker of ale and toasted his tormenters, earning himself a hearty cheer.

After that, Dirk and his brothers were treated as old friends. Food was pressed on them till they could eat no more. Their hopes of learning more about Farr, the pipeline and Fell End proved fruitless, because so many people had begun singing along with the band that it was impossible to talk without roaring. But it was so good to sit with a full stomach in good company for a time that in truth they minded this very little.

I have not felt so at home since … since before Dirk and Sholto went away, Rye thought dreamily. At the same moment he felt the armour shell freeing itself from his fingertip. It had sensed that he had relaxed. Quickly he caught it and stuffed it back into the brown bag, twisting a little aside so that no one would see.

As he turned back to the table there was a stir. Chieftain Farr was leading his smiling lady into the circle of dancers. Benches quickly emptied as people jumped up to join the widening ring.

‘Oh, imagine dancing with Farr!’ cried the cheery woman, looking hopefully at Dirk. And in a moment Dirk was on his feet, gallantly offering her his hand.

‘You too,’ he hissed at Sholto over his shoulder. ‘Talk as you dance! This is our chance to find a few things out at last!’

Dirk had not thought to ask Rye, and for this Rye was profoundly grateful. He sat unnoticed on the end of the empty bench, smiling as Sholto bowed stiffly to a young woman with yellow bows in her hair and led her away with a sour look on his face. Sholto hated dancing.

Rye wondered how Sonia felt about it. He wondered if she had woken. He called her softly in his mind but received no reply.

Leave her be, he told himself. You do not need Sonia at your elbow every moment. He slid round on the bench, turning his back on the dancers.

The other side of the square was now almost deserted. The chieftain’s son, Zak, was solemnly inspecting a solitary peddler’s collection of brightly glazed pottery animals while his old nurse vanished into the little maze of stalls in a side street. As Rye watched, the boy suddenly made his choice and proudly handed a coin to the peddler.

His last sale made, the peddler closed his tray and departed. Zak was left alone. For a moment he stood patiently waiting for his nurse to return, then his attention seemed to be attracted by something nearby. Rye squinted to see what the boy was looking at. At first he could see nothing, then, suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary.

A shining bubble was floating in mid-air, an arm’s length from Zak’s nose. The boy stretched out his hand, but the bubble moved a little away from him. He hesitated, then ran after it. The bubble drifted again, towards a shadowy doorway, and again the boy followed.

A creeping chill trickled down Rye’s spine. Instinctively he rose, then realised that he should not approach the boy alone. However he felt about this place and its people, he was a stranger. He should not draw attention to himself. He looked around for help, looked back at Zak, and felt a surge of relief as he saw someone he recognised moving out of the darkness of the doorway.

Then sweat broke out on his forehead. As the familiar features emerged from the gloom, they were changing. They were melting, and reforming. The skin was thickening, bulging and splitting till the head, limbs and swollen body were shapeless masses of rough bark sprouting fat tongues of white fungus. The eyes were dark green holes. The hair was brightening, standing out from the head like crackling flames. Great, thorny claws were sprouting from the outstretched hands. And Zak screamed like a baby goat in peril as the shining bubble burst in his face and the monster leaped at him, claws reaching, wide jaws gaping like a trap.

Rye leaped at the same moment, with all the power of the speed ring behind him. His only weapon was the bell tree stick, but the stick was in his hand as he threw himself between the beast and the child.

Dimly he heard screams of alarm and the sounds of running feet. He thought he felt Sonia wake and cry out to him. He felt a great thud as the monster collided with him. He was blinded by a flash of white light …

Then his head struck the ground, and there was only darkness.

7 - The Stranger

Rippling. Chugging. The feeling of movement. A narrow bed. A blanket, soft beneath his fingers. Two voices murmuring, one low and husky, the other older and harsher. The smell of warm metal mingled with a faint lemony scent …

He struggled to remember what had happened to him, but memory would not come. His head ached. His mind was a maze of shadows. Injured, he thought. I have been injured. But how … why?

‘Zak is with Farr on deck,’ the husky voice said. ‘Already he has almost recovered from his fright.’

‘It’s all my fault,’ the harsher voice answered. ‘I’d never have left him, only he was taking so long to choose, and when that lying messenger came saying there was another buyer for that shawl I wanted, I. …

‘Do not blame yourself, Petronelle,’ the husky voice whispered. ‘How could you have known it was a trick to lure you away at the right moment?’

‘I should have known. I should have guessed—’ The harsh old voice broke off in a sob.

‘That is foolish talk!’ the husky voice chided gently. ‘None of us thought that Zak was at risk in Fell End. Perhaps there was danger for Farr—he and I were prepared for that. But Zak—why Zak?’

There was a moment’s silence. The boat chugged. It was a boat, the listener in the bed knew. He did not know what had happened to him. He did not even know his own name. But somehow he knew he was in a boat—and not on the sea, but on a river. A long, narrow river …

The chugging sound deepened. The boat was slowing, stopping.