Emily Rodda - The Third Door

Keelin slid out of bed. The clink in the fireplace chattered and he glanced quickly at Petronelle, afraid the sound would wake her.

He still had not eaten the cake Zak had given him. Petronelle had left it on the table beside the bed in case he felt hungry in the night. With a mental apology to Zak, Keelin snatched up the cake and padded over to the fireplace.

‘Here,’ he whispered, putting the cake down on the hearth. ‘Now be quiet!’

The clink, a pale glimmer in the gloom, gave one excited squeak as if it could not believe its luck. Then tiny claws grasped the treat and dragged it back into the shadows.

Wasting no time, Keelin crept to the chest in the corner and cautiously raised the lid. Inside were some neatly folded clothes, a cracked belt and a battered pair of boots. He knelt by the chest and took out the garments one by one.

They were all very worn, but they had been washed, dried and pressed so they smelled faintly of soap and sunshine. There was nothing in any of the pockets. The clothes told him nothing. He might never have seen them in his life before.

Fighting bitter disappointment, he lifted out the boots. As he did, something that had been jammed between them and the side of the chest rolled clear.

It was a stick—just an ordinary, smooth stick. Dimly he recalled Zak pressing a stick into his hands during the night on the barge. And had Petronelle not told him that he had run to save the boy with only a stick for a weapon? This must be the very stick! Petronelle had taken it from him at some point, and put it away with everything else.

Curiously, Keelin reached for it. And the moment his fingers closed around it a memory surged into his mind, so violently that he almost cried out.

Crashing waves. The sun burning like fire as it melted into the horizon. Glittering beasts—sea serpents—their terrible, dripping heads and long, spiked necks swaying above the heaving sea …

Keelin leaned panting against the open chest, his head whirling. What did this mean? Where had this memory come from?

But he knew. He knew by the familiar way the stick fitted his hand that he had held it many times before. It was not a makeshift weapon he had snatched up at Fell End, but part of his lost past.

Vainly he struggled to recall more. Dull pain thudded behind his eyes. He shut it out and thought of the beast at Fell End, concentrating on the stick, on the smoothness of the stick. What had happened in the moments before he ran to Zak? What had he seen?

Remember! he urged himself. Prove to Manx and the others that you are no traitor!

Shapes moved sluggishly in the dimness of his mind. None would move into the light.

Hot tears of frustration burned in his eyes. He thrust the stick back into the chest, and was doing the same with the boots when he jumped. His rough handling had dislodged something that had been stuffed into the toe of the left boot. Slowly he pulled it out.

It was a strangely shaped piece of grey fabric, very light and fine. He knew at once what it was. It was a hood—and it belonged to him, he was sure of it. But why had it been jammed into the toe of the boot?

An answer came to him and his heart gave a great thud. Cautiously he tipped the boot and gave it a little shake. With a soft, sliding sound, a small drawstring bag with a long plaited cord fell into his hand.

Keelin’s palm tingled. His skin prickled. Warmth spread through him like flame. The bag was his, just as the hood was his, and the stick. They were more his than the clean, shabby clothes folded in the chest. He did not know why, but he knew it was so.

He opened the bag but could see little of the contents. He felt around with a trembling finger. There was a feather, he thought, and something hard and knobbly—

He fell back with a gasp, snatching his finger away as the bag lit up like a tiny lantern. In the fireplace the clink chittered in fright, and across the room Petronelle mumbled and half woke.

Keelin sat shaking and blinking, his eyes still dazzled by the flash of light. His head pounded ominously. He knew he had to get back to bed. It would not do for Petronelle to find him here.

For who else but Petronelle could have hidden the little bag in the toe of the boot, and used the silken hood as a plug to hold it in place? Why had she done it? And why had she not breathed a word about the bag to him or anyone else?

Quickly he pulled the drawstring tight once more and without thinking very much about what he was doing, looped the cord around his neck, tucking the bag under his nightshirt.

Silently he closed the chest and tiptoed back to bed, the silken hood crushed in his hand. To his relief, the clink had stopped chattering and gone back to its meal. But just as he slid between the covers he heard Petronelle yawning, then the springs of her cot squeaking as she sat up.

He lay very still, his heart pounding, as the old woman got up, poured herself a drink of water and returned to bed. Slowly the pain in his head eased. With the hand that held the hood he pressed the little bag to his chest. It was strangely comforting. He could just hear the small sounds of the clink scrabbling after the last of the cake crumbs in the fireplace.

He had not thought he would sleep—had not imagined sleep would be possible—but the next thing he knew, it was morning.

His head felt clear. Petronelle was still snoring gently in her corner. The drawstring bag was warm against his chest. Now was the time to examine its contents.

He slid out of bed, put on the striped dressing gown and padded across the room. Dawn light was seeping through the curtain. There was another blue pebble on the floor beneath the window. And the clink in the fireplace was dead.

10 - Carryl

Petronelle started up when Keelin cried out. She jumped out of bed and hurried over to him, plump in her pink, frilled nightgown, her fluffy hair standing up at odd angles all over her head. She clicked her tongue when she saw the small, cold body on the hearth. The clink had clearly been lying there for hours. Its tiny claws were spread wide, its mouth was gaping, the sooty flaps of skin that Keelin recognised with surprise and pity as sad little wings had stiffened in death.

‘Ah, never mind, Keelin,’ Petronelle soothed. ‘Poor creature. Its time had come, that’s all.’

She went to the door, looked out, and murmured something. Instantly Jett was in the room. He strode to the fireplace and removed the dead clink, wrapping it first in a piece of rag the old woman thrust at him.

‘I gave it the spice cake last night,’ Keelin said, the moment the door had closed again. ‘The spice cake that was meant for me.’

Petronelle stared at him. Suddenly her face was watchful.

‘You think it was poisoned,’ she said slowly. ‘But Zak gave it to you. Surely you do not think he or Farr—?’

Keelin shook his head. On impulse he took the threatening message from his pocket and handed it to her. She read it in silence, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

The drawstring bag seemed to throb against Keelin’s skin. The silken hood and the two blue pebbles burned in the pocket of his gown. He opened his mouth to speak—to ask about the hiding of the bag, the hood …

‘Listen to me, Keelin,’ Petronelle whispered, leaning towards him. ‘This is very important.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve tried to protect you, but now it’s known you’re awake and gaining strength I’ll have less and less power over what happens to you. You’re going to have to find your own way, and if you can’t remember what that way is, you’re just going to have to trust your instincts to lead you right.’

Keelin gaped at her in confusion.

‘I know you’re good,’ she went on, in the same, low whisper. ‘You can’t nurse someone for as long as I’ve nursed you and not know his heart. You’re kind, Keelin. You’re brave. You’re loving. You think things through. You try to do what’s right. You wouldn’t willingly harm any living creature.’