The Phoenix wheezed as it flapped slowly higher over the volcano, sparks trailing from its side like liquid drops of light. Molting feathers shimmered red and gold as they spiraled down to the ground and burst into flame. Not much further now …

As it rose over the rim of the volcano, the phoenix looked down – and saw only cold black rock. No lava, no healing fire and warmth. The volcano was dead. Not just dormant, but never coming back. And the phoenix … was dying. And not a cloud in the sky …

A phoenix was supposed to be reborn. Pass in smoke, rise from the ashes, that was how it went. But – it felt its side going numb – not this time, apparently … Something had gone wrong.

The phoenix sighed. It was the screwy time-streams in this world, that’s what it was. There was supposed to be a volcano here. (Though something else would do at a pinch – a pool of lava, a cook-fire, anything …) There was also supposed to be a storm. But there wasn’t. And it was too late now, the phoenix could already feel itself fading …

It didn’t remember falling.

One moment it was in the air, the next it was lying awkwardly in the middle of the once-flaming caldera, taking a last deep, shuddering breath.

The phoenix thought a number of things at this point: Shouldn’t be like this. Should have been a fire. Should have … should have been a storm … but the sky was calm and cloudless …

It closed its eyes.

Thick smoke rose high over the volcano. Somewhere beneath, there were lights even visible by daylight, incandescing into a rainbow of color.

The mountain rumbled.

And down below in the depths, something stirred. Something old – and in among it, traces of something else, something a little like belief, a little like a story, and somehow alive. It met the spark of the dying phoenix and …

The mountain rumbled some more, with an echo like a cry from the deeps.

Men talk of old, old things that have been around since time forgot. And of course, many creatures could answer to that description: extinguished deities, mythic beings, monsters – and more besides – even what some called “Old Ones”, who slept and dreamed the eons away Elsewhere[1], looking for a way back …

No one ever quite knew what made the old volcano start up again like that (or if they did, they weren’t saying). By morning, a mountain grown cold had got its old fire back, and strange things were starting to happen (even stranger than usual, that is).

The islanders joked that old Mount Lava-Lava ‘musta eaten somethin’ that disagreed with it,’ and it was indigestion they were hearing. Others, more mystically inclined, said that an old long-dormant volcano deity had stirred in its slumbers and was waking up – its power reaching out into the land.

The Amazons, though, who got the tale from the mwahaha birds, watched the volcano with deep unease. And sharpened their swords and readied their bows.

Such things had power. And power has a way of attracting those who would seek it.

Spurred by the newly rekindled warmth of the volcano, the jungle rose …

But then, this was all a long time ago, of course …

* * *

… Time rippled back to the future.

Lightning bubbled through storm clouds, rolling their way towards the island in an electric waltz. Raindrops pattered down amid the sea fog and did an impromptu tap dance on the surface of the waves. And, off in the near distance, the sullen fires of the volcano swirled around in a confused ballet of glow and shadow.

It was a night when time itself seemed in flux, wobbling unsteadily back and forth between past, present, and future …[2] And when the island’s (never very stable) reality field justified the repeated warnings that someone really should have patched those holes.[3]

In fact, it was turning into the kind of night when just about anything could happen, as the fates wove their tangled threads, sharpened the scissors, and frantically teased the fraying strands of destiny back together again. If it wasn’t so serious, it might even be funny – like the one about the parrot, the mermaid, and the mortal, who all wandered onto an island and— …[4]

* * *

Far, far away, in the Room of the Spinning-Wheels, the threads spin round and round. Though they look like the kind of yarn spun by few spinners ever, as they shimmer and glow and crackle with energy, whispering through the air like the stuff of life itself.

But why, the question seemed to hang in the air, did a room full of old-fashioned spinning-wheels need so many mirrors in it? If you were paying attention you might think you could almost see scenes and faces in them, people’s lives whirring past.

If you were looking even more closely, you’d perhaps notice the way the threads, or some of them at least, seemed to be drawn from within the mirrors, flowing silvery and translucent and glowing slightly blue towards the wheels.

And if you’d noticed this much, you might also wonder why some of the spinning-wheels seemed to have more than one wheel – or a complicated arrangement of wheels – sending threads back and forth.

Or what that sound was, the one that sounded like — and why the phrase seemed appropriate, who knows — wheels within wheels …

Tonight though, it was starting to sound like those wheels within wheels were about to throw a spring. Which, considering some of the spring mechanisms were made out of the wood of the rubbery volcanic boingi tree from the slopes of distant Mount Lava-Lava, was bound to be a cause for concern.

Especially when some of those other threads, the ones tinged with green light and running back into those other mirrors there, were starting to throw off sparks – red and gold and white.

A door opened. A guard, with a brand-new pair of sergeant’s stripes on his arm, put his head around the door, his eyes though somehow still riveted to his little magic mirror, as he made a perfunctory show of checking things were working all right.

‘… No, no, really I am,’ he said into the mirror. ‘I’m thrilled your friends are getting married … How old are their kids now? … What d’ya mean that’s got nothing to do with it. Look, I didn’t mean it like that – I love ya, baby, you know that. I’m your boyfriend aren’t I— Partner, partner – I meant partner!’ he added hastily, remembering the story in time,[5] ‘… Hey, don’t be like that … Tell ya what, we’ll talk about it when I get home …’

Eventually, though, it began to dawn on him that not all was tickety-boo in the land of spin. It may have been the subtle wrongness in the room, the way the wheels seemed to be whispering to each other – or, possibly, the way something went spploooiinng – before explosively embedding itself in the door by his head, juddering with a disconcerting rubbery sound …

‘What the—!’

… just as one of the overwrought threads broke free and snapped towards him like a lasso.

The new sergeant jerked back so suddenly he almost dropped his magic mirror, slamming the door shut behind him with a resounding boom.

In the safety of the corridor, he breathed a sigh of relief. The boss would have to be told, of course …

… Right after he’d finished taking this call …

* * *

Back on the volcano island, meanwhile, amid the colored lights and the puddles, Simeo and Vaxil were on guard duty again. And it was raining.

In fact, raining doesn’t quite cover what it was doing: It was raining like it was catching up for lost time, or – ridiculous thought – like it was flowing through time from somewhere else like it had gotten lost on its way to work a few centuries back. Like a real granddaddy of a storm was waiting in all its righteous fury just over the horizon. Which, in point of fact, it was.

What with the sea mists and the thunder in the distance, lightning flashing, and the cold, creeping fog that was winding its way in among the streets and around the lanterns overhead, it was turning into a miserable evening.

‘This,’ said Simeo, turning to Vaxil, ‘is all your fault.’

Vaxil looked up from the cigarette he was trying to assemble, as the rainstorm washed away the shreds of tobacco again before he could blink. ‘My fault? You were the one who was supposed to be watching—’

‘See! This is why no one likes working with you. Always looking for something to criticise. I’m telling you this for your own good, dude.’

‘Me! You—’

Lightning flashed across the sky. And from the witch doctress’s tower up the hill, strange lights glowed red and—

Vaxil looked awkwardly sideways. ‘Er … Simeo?’

‘Yeah, buddy?’

‘You can let go of me now.’

Simeo coughed awkwardly. ‘Uh, dude?’

‘Yes?’

‘You can let go of me too. Just sayin’.’

There was an embarrassed silence, when they both recovered their lanterns and spears.

‘It’s not like we were frightened,’ said Vaxil, voicing a theory.

‘Nah, nah, bro, like, exactly,’ said Simeo, racing towards consensus’s open-armed embrace. ‘Tell you what, though,’ he said, in a slightly strangled voice, ‘why don’t we find somewhere else to guard …’

Vaxil nodded. ‘Good idea,’ he said, as they started walking, sandals squelching through the puddles in a vaguely waterlogged way.

* * *

A voice issued from the magic mirror. The newly-promoted sergeant listened with a glazed look.

‘No, not you. Baby, I already told you. No, I’m not gonna hang up on you again – look, like I said before, some kid had just fallen out of a tower— No, I’m not making that up … Would I lie to you? … Look, I tried to tell you about that – it was just an innocent misunderstanding … No, I’m just at work and— No, I’m not sweating …’

And then he realized, actually he was. Like he’d been running. Felt … strangely out of breath.

Only then did he notice the silvery half-invisible thread roped around his foot, or the fiery red-gold sparks it was throwing off.

The newly-promoted sergeant slid to the ground, his magic mirror slipping out of his grasp and skidding away over the tiled floor. He felt things going … odd, felt it as something was pulsing out of the room behind him, through the door, through the very walls, and flowing out into the night.

He could feel his mind wandering – drifting – back, back in time, almost, which was weird because— And he really didn’t remember much after that …

* * *

After a while, Simeo said: ‘Y’know, I’ve been thinking.’

Vaxil considered this for a moment, as if Simeo thinking was a new one on him. ‘And?’

‘And … well,’ he gestured vaguely around with his spear in a way that encompassed the volcano, village life, a dating pool consisting of assistants to the witch doctress, and, to put it bluntly, being a guard in the pouring rain. ‘Y’know?’

Vaxil nodded. ‘Hey, I never knew you were this articulate.’

Simeo thwacked Vaxil in the leg with the butt of his spear.

Vaxil thumped the butt of his spear down on Simeo’s foot.

After they’d both finished hopping around, Vaxil appeared to think this over. ‘There’s a boat for the big islands in the harbor,’ he said.

‘We could get on it.’

‘Leave Lava-Lava?’

‘I … just got this feeling.’

Vaxil nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

It wasn’t exactly that they were shivering and it wasn’t exactly the rain. If Simeo were admitting to anything, it was more as though something had just passed through him, something old, and yet … strangely familiar, somehow. And … like someone was walking over their graves …

Simeo appeared to think some more. ‘Y’know, we haven’t patrolled down by the docks yet.’

‘We could look in,’ agreed Vaxil.

‘Check the boats are seaworthy.’

‘Any particular boat whose seaworthiness might need longer-range testing?’

‘Well, Captain Sequestrian’s probably still in port …’ Simeo paused. Like he’d just felt something else. Something … different, but familiar in a good way. ‘Say, put it there, pal … put it there …’

‘… Put what where?’

‘I don’t know, but it sounds right …’

‘Fair enough, fair enough. Kinda musical, actually, if you don’t mind me saying so, my old compadre.’

‘You’re not gonna start singing on me, are you?’ said Simeo, suspiciously. It was the “old compadre” bit that had tipped him off. Still …

Vaxil contrived an air of injured innocence. ‘Now what kind of thing is that to accuse a fella of?’ Though, as they walked off, there did seem to be the sound of someone muttering under his breath, ‘Boo-boo-bi-doo … boo-boo-bi-doo …’ followed by, ‘We’re off on the road to … something somewhere …’. And then, ‘Nah, it would never work …’

From atop a dripping tree, a parrot watched, and listened, with interest for a moment, then flew off into the night.

* * *

Feathers was a bird with a plan – if only he could make sense of what it was. It seemed like days since he’d last slept, and he was falling asleep on the wing, almost, flying through the rain-sodden night.

The thing to do, he thought, would be—

—Soaring, flying high, the feeling of purifying flame and warmth sizzling through your wings. That was the life … Letting out a cry of defiance as something whirred out from below. Pain, cold and numb, running through. Sparks spilling out of his side. Even the phoenix can die …—

Feathers shook his head in mid-air. What was that?

Need sleep, that was what it was. Suddenly he felt so very tired. He sailed down towards a likely looking tree with a restful looking nook in it.

Just a few minutes, a few hours, just some time to … Zzzzzzzz …

* * *

Lying amid the straw on the dungeon flagstones, Nessa stirred uneasily in her sleep. Through the high barred window up above, night breezes whispered through and down towards her heart. Something shivered through her and then she felt a chill – a cold pain – and drifted into a deeper sleep …

She dreamed … Except, she felt for a moment before she drifted away completely, it didn’t quite feel like a dream. One moment she felt an overwhelming sensation of suddenly being long ago and not so very far away— And the next, she was running …

* * *

Fairy tales sometimes speak of a maiden so beautiful that she was the Fairest One of All, the most beautiful in all the land – typically phrases like “hair black as ebony”, “lips like a rose”, and “skin white as snow” will start elbowing their way in at this point.

And whilst it’s true this particular girl did have long dark hair (or at least it looked it by storm-light) – that would have been nice if it hadn’t been bedraggled and windswept, with bits of jungle stuck in it – it wasn’t quite a part of the job description. And admittedly, she would probably have a nice smile – if she wasn’t running for her life. And what color her complexion was was a little hard to tell on account of all the mud-splashed puddles she’d tripped, fallen, and over-balanced into whilst running full tilt through a jungle lit mainly by odd flashes of lightning amid the storm of a century.

All of which of course is at least mildly misleading.

She was beautiful, as it so happens.

But beautiful in a way that’s easier to miss and harder to fake. Oh, sure, she had looks – and if she hadn’t been overwrought with terror and exhaustion, bruised, and bleeding from at least a dozen visible cuts and scratches, and otherwise impersonating Jane of the Jungle – well, she wouldn’t need no steenkin’ makeup, put it that way.

But she also had something else: Something like the fire of a thousand suns lighting her up inside and shining out through her – with warmth and grace and an indefinable charm that would make a hero blush, feel tongue-tied, and walk into a tree, all in one glance.

She had a voice that could practically lift said young man up off the ground again, or indeed from the very pits of despair, all with a whisper.

And she had eyes which, although hard to focus on in the midst of all that, could win his heart with a look, and have his soul elbowing him out of the way because he’d only mess this up.

But in addition to all this, as has already been hinted at, she was pretty much also the Fairest in the Land by traditional definitions.

And in a place where fairy tale and the like run so strong and reality is occasionally one trailing thread snagged on a tree-branch short of a full scarf, you were also bound to find a wicked witch queen, one with a penchant for a much older kind of magic mirror and for apples you’d be really ill-advised to eat.

Which might have been why—

—She was running. Through the jungle puddles, the storm flashing through the night – Nessa felt like she’d wandered into someone else’s life — wait, who was Nessa? — …

Was it her imagination – thought the girl running for her life – or were those lights up ahead? There, through the undergrowth?

Her heart was beating a frantic tattoo against her chest. She felt like her lungs were about to burst – if her legs didn’t give way first. Just a little further …

As she staggered into the undergrowth, eyes watched from the trees. And particularly from the branches of an old and twisting tree nearby, hung heavily with odd, lemon-shaped fruit. The mwahaha birds watched some more, and then took off in unison.

Some flew off in the direction the girl had gone, and soon the distinct mwahaha equivalent of a cry for help sounded over the jungle.[6]

Others, though, flew down low back the way she had come, with a look of strange determination playing about their beaks.

Because there are few birds braver in a pinch, or with more noble hearts, than the old mwahahas. And their age-old soft spot for a boy or girl in trouble is the stuff of legend – but, then, some creatures are like that – it’s who they are.

From the looks in their eyes, these ones were going to war.

* * *

—The guard sergeant froze and tried to see where his magic mirror had gotten to. His girlfriend was going to be … And then he thought, Magic mirror? Where am I—

—The huntsman looked around and sheathed his knife. His clothes were soaked and there was water leaking into his boots. Wait – boots? He looked down again. Sandles. Of some sort. Where had his boots gone? He felt sure he’d been wearing boots just a moment ag—

He paused. He had the weirdest feeling that it felt like a long time ago … but, obviously, it was right now …

He looked back at the knife at his belt, drew it again experimentally. It was viciously sharp – and old. Honed to a killing edge. It looked like it’d cut right through the jungle ahead of him – or—

—A memory that seemed to belong to someone else flashed across his mind, ringing in his ears: ‘I don’t care how you do it, but I want her found – I will have her heart, do you hear me! Now, go …’—

—The huntsman shivered. And not from the cold or the rain. That creepy mask of hers … Then he shoved that thought to the back of his brain, put it in a box, locked it, and swallowed the key. Best not to even think thoughts like that within any distance of her.

He had to find that girl.

Or it’d be his heart in a box – being turned out into the lava beneath …

He loped off into the dripping undergrowth. He tried to listen as he went, but some stupid birds were making a racket up ahead. Mwaaa. Mwaaa. Mwaaa-ha-ha …

Never mind. He had his bow and his knife. Just let him get within distance …

* * *

It was like a wall of living trees and vines, she saw. Just beyond the end of the clearing. There was a gap. And there were lights …

She made it a few more yards and then collapsed.

She heard footsteps around her. Cloaked figures, their faces concealed under deep hoods, lifted her out of the puddle she’d fallen face-first into. Others strung their bows.

As the huntsman rounded the jungle corner, half a dozen arrows thunked into the trees around his head. They made quite a neat circle.

The message was clear: We didn’t have to miss.

The cloaked figure directly in front of the girl drew back her bow again. The huntsman found himself looking along the arrow notched in it and then at the look that seemed to emanate from the dark depths of the hood.

He skidded to a halt and swerved back round into the jungle.

They never did find out what happened to him.

* * *

One of the cloaked figures knelt down by the girl and drew her hood back. ‘Now, where did you come from, I wonder?’

The girl opened her eyes a moment, looking round wildly in sheer terror.

‘Shhh, safe now … You’re going to be all right. I promise … Shhh-shh-shh. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you here …’ She smiled softly. ‘Come on, let’s get you in out of the rain.’

* * *

Inside, there was a fire, heaped with dry branches. And a big, warm cloak that felt like some kind of wool and seemed to drain all the cold and wet and fear away. And there was stew – it made you feel things were going to be okay again. The girl managed a few spoonfuls before her eyelids closed and she slid away into restful oblivion.

* * *

Legends speak of the Amazons, maiden warrioresses and heroes, lady knights of the sword and bow, and defenders of truth and light in a fairy-tale world that’s thrown a screw.[7] Seven of them sat around the fire that night.

They sat with their hoods drawn back and their faces set in hard-to-read expressions while they wondered what to do about the girl.

They’d learned that her name was Anaya. Though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. A lot of people seemed to pick up new names in a world where it was hard to remember who you were.

Though ‘Anaya’ meant ‘phoenix’, or ‘she who will rise again’, which was … suggestive …

Only one voice didn’t seem pleased to see her. ‘Well, what are we supposed to do with her? You know we can’t leave the island to get her somewhere while that old witch is working on the volcano. All she needs is one more sacrifice and she’ll have the volcano’s power in her grasp.’

The Amazon who’d comforted Anaya out in the rain just looked at her and said simply, ‘If we don’t help her, who will?’

‘Will you still say that when the witch doctress is lowering you into the flames? No, because she’ll have your heart out, so you won’t be saying anything! I’m not losing anyone else!’

‘What would you have us do? Hand a poor frightened girl over to her? Look at her. That could have been any one of us. Look at her and tell me if you could live with what would happen to her. Tell me we can’t at least try to help her.’

When you’re trying to avoid someone’s gaze, the crackle of the flames in a fire is suddenly full of interest.

And that was how the Amazons got a new watch-girl. She’d tend the fires and look after things while they were off fighting the forces of the wicked witch doctress – who seemed bent on becoming a Witch Queen – over on the other side of the island.

And never, they cautioned her, never let anyone in while they weren’t there …

… Events get a little vague at this point. There was a near-miss with a poisoned comb that somehow found its way into her hair – and the feathered necklace that wound its way so tight around her neck that if one of them hadn’t arrived back in the nick of time, she’d have been done for. And that was that.

Until, that is, one drizzly grey and lightless day when they found her, sprawled on the ground, an apple with one bite out of it trailing away from her open hand – and Anaya wouldn’t wake up again …

They laid her to rest under Phoenix Mountain (the Amazons didn’t miss much, and had ways of sensing things sometimes), in the hopes that somehow, one day, maybe she’d rise again like her namesake. Or at least, so the story goes.

They say that as they carried her on their shoulders, the mwahahas lined the way in state. They also say that, it turns out, birds can cry.

Years afterwards, outaya trees sprang up along the path they trod. And they called it Anaya’s Wake, the Outaya Way, or the Way of the Phoenix.

There was a cave beneath the mountain, with a natural rock shelf at its heart, just big enough. As the amazons laid Anaya’s body down, red and gold sparks started to fall and the chamber and tunnels around it to transform, glowing jewels sparkling from the ceiling, the stone shelf beneath her growing elaborate carvings, the walls shining with symbols carved deep into them with liquid fire – and Anaya herself turning slowly to stone.

They passed the story down as new Amazons arrived and others left, as all Amazons must do one day, one way or another – but still, it got blurred and faded with the passing years. Though a few remembered and kept a lost and frightened girl’s memory alive. Even if she would rise no more from her bed of stone.

And as stories blur in time, Anaya became “Anaya C’thonea” – the maid of fire in the underworld. And then “the Lady in the Lake of Lava”. And finally, simply, Cthoney, the slumbering volcano goddess …

… And in her sleep of dreams meanwhile, Cthoney, as she had become known, lay lost and lonely, calling out for someone to talk to … As the sun rose and time whirled back away into the future …

* * *

Nessa stirred in her sleep — living stone, they’ve buried me alive, where am I – except … she couldn’t seem to wake up. She couldn’t seem to open her eyes.

Think, she thought. No time to panic. No time to panic …

* * *

Nemo woke up tied to a stake. There was a feeling of boiling heat someone nearby. He thought he caught a glimpse of greenish-gold hair somewhere nearby, but his vision was still all blurry for some reason.

‘Well, well, well,’ said a voice nearby, sounding awfully smug. ‘How things have turned. You may have a slight headache for a while, a little residual drowsiness – it’s just the poison-apple juice, one drop and it sends you out like a light …’

Nemo found himself face to face with the witch doctress. Or face to mask, anyway. That carved, creepy mask – and Nemo thought he’d worked out what was bothering him about it. It was the way that, in stylized traditional form, of course, it seemed to resemble makeup layered so thick on someone, in such a distortion of their features, that it was a mask in itself. ‘You’re wearing a mask of a mask,’ he found himself mumbling.

‘What did you say?’ The witch stepped round towards him and lifted his chin with her hand. The witch doctress looked from side to side a moment, and then she lifted her mask. Nemo found himself looking at the features of a woman who should have been beautiful. Or at least extremely attractive … except, it was like she was still wearing a mask underneath. Her face looked like it was permanently made up, even when it wasn’t. And she was smiling at him. ‘I guess you’ve worked out by now that you’re not going to have to marry that volcano strumpet after all.’ Then she added. ‘You have interesting eyes, you know …’

‘Thank you,’ said Nemo, not knowing where to look.

She smiled at him and drifted closer. ‘It’s not easy,’ said the witch doctress, looking at him still.

Nemo didn’t know what to say.

‘For a girl to keep her looks, I mean.’ The witch doctress toyed with her hair, even while she held his chin up. ‘It’s not easy, to look as good as this.’ She sighed. ‘But as you can see, it’s been a long time between spells and I need a little … pick-me-up …’ She reached behind her, letting golden-green hair trail between her fingers.

Nemo shivered. ‘Please … let her go.’

‘I wish I could do that … Nemo, isn’t it? Most people call me Lady Vexila or Madam, but you can call me Vexie if you wish …’ Was it the poison-apple juice hangover talking, or did the evil witch doctress just giggle at him? ‘And I wish I could … but, you see, I’m a girl after your little friend’s heart …’

“Vexie” let his chin fall. From somewhere, she produced a long, wavy-bladed obsidian dagger. It glinted with sharpness in the torchlight. His throat kept trying to gulp in proximity to it. That blade … had a history. It radiated off it like cold.

A certainty formed in Nemo’s mind. They were right up near the volcano here. The witch doctress must have taken care of Cthoney somehow, maybe even with the poison-apple juice in the water she used to get to him and Nessa. And she was going to sacrifice Nessa to the volcano. Going to— He just found himself speaking: ‘Take mine instead.’

The obsidian knife paused in mid-air, as the witch doctress regarded him for a moment as if he were something she’d forgotten even existed – just as there was a gasp from somewhere nearby. The witch doctress looked round. ‘Vala! Be about your business!’ Nemo saw a female figure in a carved mask scurry off.

The witch doctress turned back to him, thoughtfully. ‘You know, you’re hardly the first to offer a girl your heart, and I’ve got to give you points for originality – but it’s got to be a beautiful young maiden, you see. My hands are tied – well, or rather hers are. Sorry, but I don’t write the rules …’ She drifted back towards him again, trailing her fingers over his cheek. He found himself not knowing where to move. ‘Oh, the Amazons are going to be sorry they missed seeing you … You’re just the sort of boy who’d appeal to them. I was going to ask if you might like to stick around a while after I’d taken care of your friend and put Cthoney back to sleep for a thousand years, but … well, you do rather wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t you … I’m afraid you might take it upon yourself to seek revenge on li’l ol’ me …’

Suddenly it all dawned on Nemo. Like he’d known roughly, but it finally hit home. Just as some girls apparently stop aging at the age of twenty-one or so, so some women can cheerfully go around being thirty-five for centuries … and it dawned on him that the witch doctress had done so by literally throwing girls like Nessa into the volcano. She was going to throw Nessa into a fiery lake of lava—

He found himself ripping at his bonds, struggling forward against the stake. ‘You leave her alone!’ he shouted—

* * *

In the darkness, and through the storm, the whoosh of pink light sped across the sky over the water. The serpent lady’s spell seemed, somehow for a ball of light, to sniff at the air. The spell had got the scent. It was tangled amid a confusing lot of scents — fire, and soap for some reason … as well as … apples? But, it was there. He was near. Tally-ho!

* * *

It was the dark elbow of the night, heading somewhere into the early hours, and far darker than it should have been. At the edge of the stone pavilion leading up to the winding outcrop over the volcano, Vexila gazed out at the storm. She was watching a cloud like a Death’s-head skull drift slowly nearer. When it was over the volcano, the time would be right.

She examined her hand for a moment. It was amazing what you could do with a little elementary volcano magic, some witch-doctoring, and a steady stream of beautiful young maidens washing up on shore (an Amazon would do at a pinch, but they made it so difficult to take them alive). Get the right tool – a wavy-bladed obsidian dagger, for example – and you could go right to the heart of the matter, so to speak.

A poisoned apple here and there didn’t hurt either. People had forgotten so much, so many of the old stories, that she could even get away with it outright again, but … she liked to be a little more creative than that. And she couldn’t understand how no one had ever considered poison-apple juice before. Just a touch added to water, and people wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. Just enough to make sure they weren’t out too long, of course. And now, here they were.

For a moment she watched the storm and listened to the rain pattering down. She used to enjoy things like that a lot more, but things changed, over the centuries. Gotten number, somehow … colder …

She shook her head. This wasn’t helping … The outsider and the girl were in place — they’d love to talk, but they were all tied up at the moment, haha. She’d had to have the guards subdue the boy. Shame … And that meddlesome volcano deiess was out cold by the same expedient as the others – only a rather stronger dose. And they were almost ready to begin. Just a few more finishing touches.

Something in the water? You’d better believe there was …

* * *

Feathers twitched open an eye and wished he hadn’t. His head was going round and round in an achey swirl of recrimination and accusation. And the worst thing about it was he couldn’t think why. He gingerly poked a beak out of the tree hollow he’d been resting in and out into the storm.

Tha’s all right. Still there.

But look, some awfully pretty lights up on the slope of the volcano— Wait a minute. Up by the volcano? There really was an awful lot of torchlight under that sort of roofed enclosure …

Now, what would anyone possibly be doing up there on the edge of a fiery volcano in the middle of a storm at this time of night? He had a bad feeling he knew the answer, as he shuffled up out of his nice warm dry nook and out into the rain and wind and lightning …

* * *

Feathers fluttered down and pushed past the bars – and then sighed, panting as he gazed down at the empty dungeon cell. No Nessa. They must have grabbed her. And – he glanced back outside, dripping rainwater over the sill – the wind was picking up.

He had a fair bet that Nemo was up there too. But how to help them? A bird in winds like this near a raging volcano is going to end up as crispy-fried duck if he doesn’t look lively.

He needed something to change the game.

An idea occurred. ‘Sometimes,’ he said to himself, ‘I really hate how my mind works …’

A parrot in a thunderstorm may be a bird in trouble, but that was nothing compared to how much trouble he was about to be in.

He sighed even more deeply, shaking his head even as he wobbled back towards the window. Could be he was about to get cooked anyway …

* * *

Nessa stirred and stretched in her sleep. She’d been having the strangest dream … She couldn’t move —sleep of living stone. Buried alive. Something … seeping into her head … something else, too. Something old and ancient and— She opened her eyes.

Oh, no. Not again …

She was bound hand and foot. Around her, she noticed in weird fascination, were fruits and leaves and flowers and jewels, gemstones cut and uncut, and various things she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know what they were.

She also couldn’t help but notice that someone had put some extra clothes on around her existing shirt, breeches, and sea boots. I appear to be wearing a feathered headdress, she thought to herself. And if that isn’t the worst of it, someone’s going to have some questions to answer …

She could see figures moving around in the shadows and the torchlight.

Tied to a stake nearby on her right was Nemo. His shirt was torn. Actually, she thought with a pang, he kind of looked like somebody had been working him over, the beginnings of a nasty-looking black eye swelling into being on his face— a loose thread whirling around in time— Something flashed across her mind—

—‘Leave her alone!’

Nemo tried to pull free of the ropes around the stake. (She could see his muscles straining.) He was almost doing it, too. He looked like he was about to take on the world …

There was confusion, a struggle, guards grabbing hold of him. Six of them were having quite a job, him being tied to a stake notwithstanding …

‘Stop!’ said a woman’s voice. The witch doctress stepped forward, in one hand a long death’s-head pin, in the other a doll (Nessa peered at it) – it had long golden-green hair wisping out behind it in the wind. The witch doctress raised the pin over the doll’s chest.

Nemo stopped dead, his eyes going to the altar (it was kind of odd seeing herself from the outside), almost not daring to breathe.

‘Strengthen those bonds. And make sure the girl is secure on that altar. One more squeak out of you, and you know what will happen … Guards, our guest is getting a little … overwrought.’ The witch doctress stepped closer lifted Nemo’s chin with the hand with the pin in it, saying, ‘You had your chance.’ Then she let his chin fall and turned to the guards, jerking her head back towards Nemo. ‘Administer a sedative.’ A guard drew back a fist (Nessa winced) and Nemo went lights out …—

—Nessa shuddered. And closed her eyes again, not wanting to look. She was probably about to die, and not pleasantly – tied to an altar near a lava-filled volcano was a circumstance that almost never ended well. And even though he was probably about to die too, Nemo – poor, dumb confused goof that he was half the time – was trying to fight for her. Looked like he wasn’t going to be married off to the volcano goddess after all, she realised. Except, she—

* * *

Feathers knocked over a goblet on his way in. It clattered noisily to the ground. He staggered around clumsily on the table. What the— … he felt like he’d … been drugged … A pitcher still with a little water in it fell even more noisily. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room, as a figure stirred on the big ornate bed.

Feathers gulped.

Still time to back out of this, he thought woozily to himself. Still time to not be incinerated in a fit of rage after you tell her what’s going on. Still time for – your friends to have their hearts cut out and be flung into boiling lava.

Feathers fluttered, drunkenly but determinedly, forward, landing on a stone chest at the end of the bed. How did she not set fire to the sheets, he wondered nervously.

There are many kinds of courage in this world, but perhaps it takes a very special kind of courage and heart to—

‘Rawk! Rawk! Rawk!’ squawked Feathers, and prepared to go to the great big Jungle in the Sky.

And there was movement. A pair of flaming eyes looked directly and intently at him, as the volcano goddess Cthoney sat up in bed.

Feathers’ beak babbled into life ‘—before ya cooks my goose and good, there’s something ya oughta know …’

* * *

The storm rose towards a crescendo, as the Death’s Head skull cloud crept ever nearer to the summit of the volcano. Out of the corner of your eye, though, if you squint a little bit, doesn’t that other cloud look like a – … huh … fancy …

* * *

‘Vene, vulcanis. Cor ex corpore …’ The witch doctress chanted, pacing back and forth, swirling the knife around in the air, watching from behind her mask as the Death’s Head drew nearer. Not much longer now.

* * *

Nessa blinked her eyes. She’d tried to struggle out of her bonds, but they were too secure. She blinked again. Stupid volcano ash … The witch doctress had wandered off and seemed to off muttering to herself.

She glanced about. No one else around. Something she had to do. ‘Nemo,’ she whispered. She could just turn her head enough to see him, still slumped forward. ‘Nemo …’ she said again.

He wasn’t waking up.

‘This is stupid,’ she said. ‘I know Nemo’s not you real name, but it’s the best we’ve got right now … best you’ve got. And here I am rambling. I’m about to die and I’m rambling … Nemo, I …’

Lightning zig-zagged to earth and blew a hole in the roof. Nessa closed her eyes and shifted her head as bits of debris scattered down, and the sheeting rain started pouring in from outside. “Outside.” Hah. Outside’s in and inside’s out. She felt weirdly reinvigorated. Like the lightning had entered her heart, in a way. Hah! Take my insides out, will ya? And just what makes you think I won’t have anything to say about it?

Tie up my friend and try to kill me, will you? I’m not taking this lying down!

Admittedly, she was lying down and tied to an altar, but not by choice. And those ropes were awfully secure. But that didn’t mean she just had to take it, didn’t mean she— Just because she couldn’t move didn’t mean she had to lay down and die. Lay down and watch Nemo die …

She closed her eyes and did something she hadn’t done for a very long time, something she’d said she wouldn’t do. Her mind focused in with lightning-like focus and clarity through the thunder and the rain pouring down over her through the hole in the roof. Her lips moved silently …

Thunder rumbled like the heavens themselves were opening. Lightning clashed. There were flashes of impact from all around the sides of the mountain, and the volcano gave a great shuddering roar …

* * *

… As the mother of all lightning bolts zig-zagged down out of the storm with a thunderous crash— …

… As the smoke cleared away, standing on a smoldering, half-molten patch of stone, was a large bird.

One moment it looked a deep storm blue, the next you could see the array of colours rippling over its – strangely feminine – feathered form. It opened its wings wide, and a charred-looking bundle fell out. Then it stretched its wings out even wider. Time flickered – and from where the bird had been a moment before, Cthoney stepped forward out of the storm, sparkles and lightning-motes glimmering around and over her.

Her eyes looked like thunder – not merely disgruntled, but like actual thunderbolts were whirling around inside of them.

Her dress, once a kind of doe-brown, crackled storm-blue and shimmery with sparkles of lightning. The feathers of her headdress and mantle glowed in an array of beautiful storm-bright colors.

And as she stepped forward, lightning crackled beneath her feet, and at her fingertips …

The retreating figures of several guards could already be seen fleeing down the slope, flinging away their masks as they ran.

* * *

Steam hissed off Cthoney as she stepped forward through the driving rain towards the open-sided stone pavilion. As the storm flashed around her, reflected in the dark molten pools, along with tears … ‘How dare you …’ she said, stalking nearer and towards the witch doctress. ‘You – you have been keeping me bound in chains of darkness, leaving me to rot in restless sleep. You, you would have me thrown back into that for an age …’ 

Nessa risked a sidewards glance and saw that the Witch Doctress had her mask thrown back and, that despite everything, she was still smiling. Now that just couldn’t be good …

The witch doctress stepped around the altar, a book in her hands, or rather something in a leather cover – a book of enamelled sheets of bronze bound together, carvings etched deep into them. With her other hand she drew something from a pouch at her belt, a handful of dust that she flung onto the wind so that it went flying towards Cthoney, it sparkled green-gold as it came into contact with her, then blue and bronze, and finally pink and red.

‘Back to the fire I send thee. Sleep, Old One, sleep. From lava to lava, fire to fire, ash to ash. Sleep – sleep …’ As the incantation was finished, Nessa saw Cthoney’s eyes drifting shut, saw her start to shake, light beaming forth out through her eyelids. She looked like she was about to fly apart.

‘And so it ends,’ said the Witch Doctress. ‘You cannot maintain your form here, and so, my dear, it’s back to the volcano for you …’

‘No!‘ came a scream, as Cthoney seemed to disintegrate from her toes up, into wavering specks of light. As if bending with the wind, the volcano goddess reached up a hand, calling out to the storm. A lightning bolt spiraled down out of the heavens, wrapping round her hand and then the rest of her, even as she flew apart.

Outlines of fiery orange-white and gold kept walking, flowing together into something that almost looked like a bird – and towards Nessa.

It hit her in the chest, and suddenly her heart was on fire. Nessa gasped for breath, struggling against the flames running through her veins, the thunder and the storm … What was happening to her …

Lightning crashed across the sky again. Thunder rolled.

And on the altar, Nessa-Cthoney opened her eyes. This was interesting …

* * *

She looked at the bonds around her wrists. Suddenly they burst into flame – searing consuming flame. The same for the ones around her ankles and waist.

She dusted the ash off her wrists as she swung up over off the bier, sending fruits and gems spilling away.

Vexila stepped back, something like uncertainty and something like fear in the eyes behind the mask.

Nessa-Cthoney stepped nearer. She smiled a small little smile. She could get used to this. It was good to be back in a proper body again, after all this time … She opened her mouth, and when she spoke, it was Cthoney’s voice that came out. ‘No more Miss Nice Goddess …’

* * *

Vexila looked around in panic. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fortunately, she’d prepared for just such an emergency. Time for the other voodoo doll. ‘Hold it right there …’

Nessa-Cthoney froze.

In the witch doctress’s hand was a doll, with a little ragged shirt and trousers hanging loose at the knee. It had a black eye swelling on one side of its little face. And it was hanging unconscious. The Death’s Head pin was back, poised over the Nemo-doll’s heart.

‘No!’ she screamed—

To Be Continued …

[Previous –> Part 8: The Mirror’s Eye.] [Next –> Part 10: The Many-Sundered Heart.]

[1] And you just know that capital letter is going to bode nobody any good.

[2] Like a talking parrot who’s got at the rum and keeps changing shoulders.

[3] You know, with a flux needle and the special thread and a tube of reality glue.

[4] But that would be telling, wouldn’t it?

[5] It’s so easy to forget, isn’t it?

[6] (Which by a strange coincidence, sounds just like that of a beautiful maiden tied to the rails just as an oncoming steam train approaches.)

[7] The same legends speak in the passing of a bird, hard to describe – some say it has a long gently curving beak**, feathers of many colors, and a strange laughing cry.

Which first adopted the other, mwahaha or Amazon, is a mystery. People who miss the point and have to take a thing apart to understand it might say it’s an example of sympathetic evolution and mutual self-interest. The Amazons put it rather more bluntly: “Whoever harms a mwahaha better be able to outrun an arrow, and also, have iron underpants.”

**: Though of course toucan play at that game.