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  Also by Paul Stewart & Chris Riddell

  Far-Flung Adventures

  Fergus Crane

  Corby Flood

  The Edge Chronicles

  Beyond the Deepwoods Stormchaser

  Midnight over Sanctaphrax

  The Curse of the Gloamglozer

  The Last of the Sky Pirates

  Vox

  Freeglader

  The Winter Knights

  To Jack, Katy and Anna

  Part One

  “They lived in a little cabin deep in the ice forests of the Frozen North …”

  The Snow Giant’s Gift

  Once upon a time, there were two reindeer herders called Harvi and Sarvi Runter-Tun-Tun. Harvi was tall and bony, Sarvi was short and round. Both of them had beady eyes, snub noses and long hair, which they tied up and kept hidden beneath their three-pointed reindeer herder hats.

  They loved each other dearly and, though they were not blessed with children, they were happy and healthy, and counted themselves the luckiest reindeer herders in the whole wide world.

  They lived in a little cabin deep in the ice forests of the Frozen North, where the summers are short and the winters are very, very long. Every summer, Harvi and Sarvi milked their reindeer beneath the midnight sun. Then, as the days grew short and the nights grew long, they would return to their cabin in the ice forests.

  There, all through the long winter, beneath the ice moon, they made reindeer cheese – the finest in the whole of the Frozen North. People came from far and wide just to taste their ‘moose-milk mozzarella’ and ‘elk gorgonzola’, while their famous ‘red nose brie’ was once served to no less a person than Queen Rita at a fabulous banquet aboard the S.S. Euphonia.

  If they had wanted to, Harvi and Sarvi could have sold every truckle of reindeer cheese they produced, but they didn’t. And this is the reason why. Although they were famous cheesemakers, the Runter-Tun-Tuns were simple reindeer herders at heart and were always careful to observe the ways of the Frozen North.

  One of those ways was to save a single truckle from every batch of cheese and leave it outside the cabin door last thing before going to bed. This was to keep the snow giants who lived in the ice forests happy. Neither Harvi nor Sarvi had ever actually seen a snow giant, but they both knew that they existed because they’d seen their giant footprints in the snow. These footprints were huge – as wide as a milk pail and with three long toes splayed out at the front of each massive foot.

  So, as every reindeer herder knew, it made sense to keep such fearsome creatures happy. Each night, the Runter-Tun-Tuns left the cheese outside and each morning there would be cheese crumbs on the cabin doorstep and huge footprints which led off into the forest of ice. Sometimes the snow giants would leave little presents of their own, like sprigs of icicle-trees or a frozen fir-cone or two. As the wolves howled at the moon and hungry polar bears prowled in the distance, Harvi and Sarvi felt protected by their snow giants.

  Along with the sprigs and fir-cones, the Runter-Tun-Tuns believed that the snow giants also brought them luck. Then, one dark snowy night, the snow giants brought Harvi and Sarvi something else. When Sarvi opened the door to their cabin and looked down – expecting to see cheese crumbs and a frozen fir-cone or two – she found herself looking into two bright twinkling blue eyes. She gave a high-pitched squeak of surprise, because there on the doorstep in the early light of dawn was a little baby wrapped up tightly in a blanket.

  She knelt down, scooped the baby up in her arms and hugged it tightly. It gurgled contentedly. Then she turned and rushed back inside, calling excitedly to her husband, ‘Harvi! Harvi! Wake up! Look what the snow giants have brought us!’

  Now the Runter-Tun-Tuns might have been simple reindeer herders at heart, but they knew that where there was a baby, there had to be parents somewhere close by. So Harvi put on his snow shoes, packed up a reindeer and set off to search the ice forests.

  It was late afternoon with the low sun casting long shadows when he stumbled across it. A strange sled, overturned, half-draped in a sheet of silk – and covered in polar bear claw marks. Next to it was all that was left of the baby’s parents.

  A gentleman’s boot and a lady’s glove.

  There were polar bear tracks and snow-giant footprints in the snow, and the telltale signs of a mighty struggle. Harvi rolled up the silk sheet and turned the sled back over. Then – along with the gentleman’s boot and the lady’s glove – he stashed the sheet behind the seat, hitched the sled to his reindeer and towed it back to the cabin. There he stored it carefully at the back of the milking shed and went inside to tell Sarvi the sad news.

  And it was sad news. But deep down, both Harvi and Sarvi were also happy, because now they had a little boy to call their own. His real parents may have been eaten by polar bears, but the snow giants had saved the baby and brought him to the Runter-Tun-Tuns, and they felt proud and honoured to have been chosen for the special task of raising the infant.

  They also felt a little bit guilty, because although they loved the little baby and looked after him as if he was their own, teaching him about reindeer herding and cheesemaking and the ways of the Frozen North – and even called him by the name stitched into the back of the cardigan they found him in, there was one thing they didn’t do.

  They didn’t try to find out where he came from.

  Harvi and Sarvi knew they should have, but they were just simple reindeer herders and they were frightened of losing their little boy. So when people arrived from far-flung places to buy their cheese, the Runter-Tun-Tuns didn’t ask or answer any questions. They simply smiled and nodded and wrapped up the truckles to keep them fresh – and always, always made sure that there was one left over for the snow giants.

  And the years passed …

  Then one day, ten and a half years later, the boy didn’t come in from milking. When Harvi went to the milking shed, he found him at the very back, behind the woodpile, staring at the battered sled that had lain hidden there for all those years. He was holding a lady’s glove in one hand and a gentleman’s boot in the other.

  heavy fog lay over the streets and alleyways of Harbour Heights, muffling the sounds and obscuring the sights of the town. In the distance, the mournful boom of the foghorn at Mermaid Cove could just be heard, while down by the harbour, the old disused lighthouse at Cyclops Point had all but disappeared in a grey haze.

  In the lower town, the shops along Archduke Ferdinand Boulevard were closing early and a trickle of theatre-goers was coming out of the matinée performance of Fedrun Follies at the Archduke Ferdinand Theatre.

  In the upper town, there was an eerie quiet in the large elegant squares and spacious gardens of the Heights, most people preferring to stay indoors rather than walk the gloomy streets.

  Anyone venturing out that foggy evening would have found Montmorency Square deserted, and not a soul to be seen on Clifftop Row. Turning right and climbing the three hundred steps of Sleeping Horse Lane, they would also have found themselves completely alone. But by turning left at the top of the steps into a forgotten little square far from the usual hustle and bustle of Harbour Heights, they would have encountered a curious figure looming out of the fog.

  Tall and thin, and dressed in a shabby grey coat and a stovepipe hat, the old man tap-tap-tapped his way slowly around the little square, a long pole clasped in his gnarled hand. Pausing beneath a tall, fluted lamppost, the old man raised the pole, gently unlatched the door of the lamp and pulled it open. Then he pressed gently down on the nozzle inside with the tip of the pole. There was a click followed by a soft hiss as the gas began to flow. Taking a taper from the brim of the tall hat, the lamplighter lit it with a flick of his thumb and placed it in the holder on the end of the pole.

  Slowly an
d carefully he raised the glowing pole and held it over the nozzle inside the lamp. There was a muffled pop, followed by a flash of blue, which became a soft, yellow light as the mantle began to glow. The lamplighter pushed the glass door shut, the golden light gleaming on the beads of mist that encrusted his thick, droopy moustache, and moved on – tap-tap-tap – to the next lamppost.

  Behind him a trail of soft, yellow lights twinkled out of the fog and, as if in answer, something remarkable happened. The untidy tangle of trees, shrubs and bushes of the garden in the middle of the square began to shimmer and twinkle. By the time the old lamplighter had lit the last lamp and tap-tapped his way back down Sleeping Horse Lane, the gardens were alive with thousands of dancing, shimmering fireflies. It was a magical sight, even on that gloomy evening – or at least, it would have been if there had been anyone around to see it.

  Just then, out of the fog, there came a strange, stuttering sound, soft at first, but growing louder with every passing second.

  Phut! Phut! Splutter-splutter! Phut!

  It seemed to be coming from high up above the square – the sound of a little engine, spluttering and backfiring.

  Phut! Phut! Bang! Phut! …

  Just as it seemed to be directly over the gardens with their shimmering, twinkling fireflies, the engine cut out and, for a moment, there was complete silence. Then suddenly there came a whistling whoosh as something heavy fell from the sky. It crashed into a tall tree in the corner of the gardens with a loud clang and the sound of splintering branches.

  With screeches of dismay, a dozen scruffy yellow cats shot out of the surrounding bushes and dashed off into the fog in the direction of Sleeping Horse Lane, as a large silk balloon tumbled gracefully from the sky and crumpled over a splintered branch with a sigh. All was quiet for a moment. Then, accompanied by a soft rustling noise, the tree began to shake. Suddenly, a small bundle dropped from its branches and fell in a shower of leaves and fireflies.

  As it reached the ground, the bundle hovered momentarily, then seemed to unfurl like a flower opening its petals, before settling gently on the damp earth. In the middle of the blanket, curled into a tight ball, was the figure of a small boy.

  He was dressed in the distinctive costume of a reindeer herder from the Frozen North, with an embroidered sweater, a three-pointed hat and thick mittens. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and peered up at the tree, then down at the worn blanket on which he was standing. Kneeling down, he gently rolled the blanket up, put it under one arm and stumbled out of the garden on wobbly legs – straight into the path of two old ladies who had just come out of Sleeping Horse Lane.

  They were tall, thin and elegantly dressed in long, flowing skirts that reached to the ground. Both had luxuriant bronze-coloured hair done up in elaborate coils and buns, and each wore large, green-tinted spectacles through which they peered at the boy.

  ‘Good evening, young man,’ said the first old lady.

  ‘Are you quite all right?’ said the second old lady, looking at the boy’s face, which was deathly white.

  ‘I … I … haven’t eaten for days …’ the boy began, swaying on his feet. ‘The cheese ran out … I had no idea it was this far from the Frozen North …’

  ‘Cheese?’ said the first old lady, putting down the lump of driftwood she was carrying.

  ‘Frozen North?’ said the second old lady, setting down the large seashell she had under her arm.

  In front of them, the gardens shimmered in the thinning fog.

  ‘Where … is this?’ asked the boy unsteadily.

  ‘Why,’ the old ladies beamed at him through their green-tinted spectacles, ‘Firefly Square, of course.’

  But the boy didn’t hear them, for he had fainted clean away.

  “Once, they even found a bicycle and took it in turns to ride it along the beach at Mermaid Cove.”

  The Story Collector and the Mermaids

  Once upon a time, there were two young mermaids called Daisy and Lily Neptune. They swam in the seas around the pretty little fishing town of Harbour Heights, and lived in a damp cave hidden behind a curtain of seaweed fronds amongst the rocks of Mermaid Cove.

  Now, it is often believed that mermaids spend all their time at the bottom of the ocean living in palaces of coral, and waited on hand and tail by brightly coloured fish. Some do, of course, but they are mostly mermaid royalty and appear in fairytales in which they make a big fuss about going on dry land.

  Daisy and Lily weren’t like that at all. No, they were pretty ordinary mermaids really. They enjoyed swimming in the sea of course, but thought nothing of taking a walk along the sand when they felt like it. In fact, they actually enjoyed going for walks, much in the same way that people who live on land enjoy going for a swim.

  They were extremely competent walkers, with highly developed tail fins and an efficient stepping-action. Both of them wore long, elegant walksuits especially made for walking. Truth be told, Daisy and Lily liked nothing better than strolling along the beach and collecting things that had been washed up there.

  They used the flotsam and jetsam that they collected to decorate their cave, making it as cosy and inviting as a damp cave hidden behind a curtain of seaweed fronds ever could be. They found all sorts of interesting things, like rusty ships’ bells, sea chests covered in barnacles and ornately carved figureheads. Once, they even found a bicycle and took it in turns to ride it along the beach at Mermaid Cove. It was there that they were spotted by a pot-holer and musical dramatist called Edward T. Trellis, who never forgot the sight.

  But that’s another story …

  Anyway, the reason Daisy and Lily found so much flotsam and jetsam on the beaches near Harbour Heights was because the coastline there was extremely rocky and ships were always getting wrecked, or running aground, or losing bits of themselves. The lighthouse at Cyclops Point had been built to help guide ships into the harbour, and had worked well when Harbour Heights had been a little fishing town. But the town had grown and, as more and more ships visited it, the seas around the coast got busier and busier.

  The Cyclops Point lighthouse grew too small for such a big town whose harbourside lights could now be seen for miles. Along the coast at Mermaid Cove, however, it was a different matter, and hardly a month went by without a shipwreck of some kind of other. The townspeople knew that something had to be done, but couldn’t decide what.

  Some said Cyclops Point lighthouse should be pulled down and a new, taller lighthouse built. Others said it should be moved. And some said the whole town should move instead. No one could agree.

  It looked like stalemate in Harbour Heights – with the number of wrecked ships increasing all the time – until a young local man by the name of Wilfred McPherson decided to take the matter in hand.

  A writer by profession, he also loved collecting stories. He decided to talk to every sea captain and fisherman who visited the harbour.

  He listened to their stories of where the worst rocks and strongest currents were, and he collected them all together. Then, by studying the stories and comparing one with another, he came to an interesting conclusion, which he set out to test by setting sail in his small boat.

  The story collector hadn’t got far when a violent storm blew up and he found his boat being tossed about on huge waves. He was almost as good a sailor as he was a collector of stories, but even he couldn’t stop his boat being dashed against the treacherous rocks of Mermaid Cove.

  That would have been the end of the story, if it hadn’t been for Daisy and Lily Neptune. They dived into the stormy sea and saved the story collector from drowning – just like those mermaids in fairytales – and brought him back to their damp cave. There, they showed him all the flotsam and jetsam they’d collected, including the bicycle, which only convinced the story collector all the more that his theory was right – that there needed to be a lighthouse at Mermaid Cove, on the rocks outside Daisy and Lily’s home.

  The story collector hurried back to Harbour Heights (on Daisy�
�s bicycle which, by the way, he didn’t steal, but Daisy lent him, contrary to the scene in Edward T. Trellis’s musical farce, The Cycling Fish.) There, he showed the Harbour Board his collection of sailors’ stories, and told them all about his own shipwreck on the rocks of Mermaid Cove. He didn’t, though, tell them about Daisy and Lily, because mermaids are extremely shy and retiring, and he knew they wouldn’t want a fuss to be made of them.

  The Harbour Board was convinced, and immediately set about building the new lighthouse at Mermaid Cove. It proved a great success. The Harbour Board and the townspeople – not to mention the sea captains and fishermen – were so grateful, that they rewarded him with a large sum of money and a small plot of land called Firefly Field, which was situated at the top of Sleeping Horse Lane.

  There he built a little square, founded the Institute of Travellers’ Tales, which later became home to The Firefly Quarterly – and married a beautiful young woman called Molly. They had met in front of the old lighthouse at Cyclops Point – which by then had been closed down – and fallen in love at first sight.

  They lived happily in the prosperous and increasingly bustling city of Harbour Heights where, in due course, they had a beautiful baby daughter of their own, whom they named Phyllida. And at her christening, there were two strikingly elegant ladies in long walksuits and green spectacles who were delighted to become the baby’s ‘mermaid’ godmothers.

  lliot de Mille, editor of The Firefly Quarterly, stood looking out of the large oval window of his office. The glass panes had been white-washed, leaving two small eye-holes in the centre of the window for the director to spy, unobserved, on the comings and goings in Firefly Square.