Grandma's Attic

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thredwyl looked up at the clock. Not yet an hour since Night-Shift Louisa came on duty and already she'd excused herself to 'spend a penny'. It was unusual for her need to spend pennies to arise this soon, but the wise stone misses no turn.

As soon as the door closed behind her he threw back his covers, threw his legs around the red fire-stick, manoeuvred it erect between his legs and, nipping tight with his knees, dragged the ribbed wheel over the flint – which, from this position, he couldn't see. The wheel moved but slowly, and not enough to draw a spark. He tried again, applying more pressure. O yay, he saw the spark. But...he sniffed. Nay, that wasn't him, he hadn't gassed. Ah, 'twas the fire-stick. Daisy had warned him not to press the black pad till he was ready to make fire else he'd release all the fuel. He must have accidently caught it.

He tried again.

Wowzah, wowzah, wow. A veritable volcano, fierce in its heat, shot high.

But how...how...how to get rid of it?

He was afraid if he let go of the red-stick he'd lose control of the fire and his hands were beginning to burn. Ouch! He pushed the fire-making contraption away from him, aimed at the floor where it might be safe.

It was safe alright, for immediately he released that black lever the flame died.

The door beep-beep-beeped, warning him of Night-Shift Louisa's return.

He leapt from his bed and across the floor to retrieve the fire-stick. He shoved it beneath his covers and scrambled back onto his bed. He wasn't yet beneath his covers when Night-Shift Louisa opened the door.

She stopped. Sniffed. Frowned. Then with a shrugged shoulder and a quirked mouth, she retrieved her magazine and sat down. The paper rustled as she flicked to a new page. In less than a sweep of the clock's long hand, she was fully engrossed.

Thredwyl reviewed his practice run. What had he learned? That the black lever released the gas which fuelled the flame. But that flame wasn't enough to spark the fire alarm. He needed to create smoke as well. Loads of smoke, that's what Daisy had said. He looked at his covers. That should do it. Except those covers wouldn't readily take the fire. No, but Louisa's magazine would. Content he knew what to do, he waited for Louisa's next trip to 'spend-a-penny'.

The clock's short arm pointed to between eleven and twelve when Louisa abruptly stood, slapped her magazine on the chair, muttered of 'spending a penny—again', and left the room.

It wasn't exactly twelve o'clock, but better to make his escape now than to leave it late and miss his slot to be picked up.

He hurriedly fetched Louisa's magazine to place it beside him as he again sat on the edge of his bed, his legs wrapped around the red fire-stick. Ten pairs of miners whacked with their hammers against his chest while slithery things squirmed around his throat. He didn't want to do this. But what if he didn't? He was certain now this was no Home Office anything. It was all a scam pulled together by the professor. Thredwyl didn't know what the professor intended to do with him, but he could guess it wouldn't be nice. The professor was Grandma's Adversary's most ardent servitor, sworn against everything in Grandma's Original Creation, and that included him, Thredwyl. So, could he do this, or could he not?

He could. And would. And now.

He dragged the wheel with all his might, firmly depressing the lever while the fire jetted out.

But now what?

He needed the magazine to catch the fire. Yet he needed both hands to hold the lever. Without the lever depressed the gas wouldn't jet, and without the jet the flame would fail. He looked from magazine to flame, and up to the clock. The long hand was sweeping, the minutes ticking. His fingers were beginning to burn.

How was he to transfer flame to paper?

Tilting the fire-stick didn't work. The flame gushed out a clear finger-space above the paper.

He pulled on the edge of the page and arched it over the flame – not easily done with only one hand and the shiny paper so slippery. Yet at least the edge of the paper began to darken, to turn a poop-stain brown. It wrinkled, curled and...aye, it burst into flame.

Time was ticking along at a speedy click and he'd still to make enough smoke to spark the alarm before Night-Shift Louisa returned.

Thredwyl wasn't a brainless gnole; he knew if he piled his bedding atop the flame the fire would putter out. But if he held his covers – just so – above the flame.... Unable to escape, the flame licked along it.

And if he held it there until the covers began to smoulder and the flames began to peck at the fabric....

And then if he slightly lifted the covers and wafted it.... Aye, that was the way to do it.

Smoke billowed out from beneath the covers. Flames licked along the edges.

Time to station himself beside the door, ready to make his dash as soon as it bleep-bleeped open.

Drats, the map, where was it?

He'd left it under the covers, and those covers now were burning, smouldering, producing smoke that stung his eyes.

And why hadn't the alarm sounded yet and the door bleeped open? Tensed for action, as brittle as mica, he waited, poised to run.

Night-Shift Louisa's shoes softly tumpity-squeaked as she returned from spending her penny. The sequenced bleeps of the chip-filled lock played their coded tune.

Thredwyl watched as the door cracked open...and the sudden draught caught the smouldering fire and swept it up the walls and across the ceiling.

Night-Shift Louisa slammed the door shut before the flames could hit her full frontal.

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