Book of Fire

  Life outside the domes is not possible. At least that’s what Insiders are told.

  Twins Eli and Talia shouldn’t exist. They’re Outsiders.

  Their home is a secret. Their lives are a secret. Arafel is a secret.

  An unexpected forest raid forces Talia into a desperate mission to rescue her family while protecting the sacred Book of Arafel from those who would use it as a weapon. As Talia and her lifelong friend Max enter the dome, she makes some unexpected discoveries and an ally – in the form of rugged Insider August – that will change the course of her life for ever.

  She’ll stop at nothing to save her family but will she sacrifice her heart in the process?

  The Fire Sermon meets Gladiator in this brilliant YA debut.

  Book of Fire

  Michelle Kenney

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Endpages

  Copyright

  MICHELLE KENNEY

  is a self-confessed scribbleaholic. She can usually be found daydreaming about mystical, fantasy worlds, and doctors say she’s pretty incurable.

  Michelle is a graduate of the Curtis Brown Writing for Children Novel Course. She also holds a LLB (Hons) Degree and is currently an Accredited Practitioner with the CIPR, with whom she has won several national awards for her Magazine & Media/PR related work.

  Michelle is currently represented by Chloe Seager of Diane Banks Associates and can be found, along with her Curtis Brown scribbling friends, at www.thescribblersonline.com

  Acknowledgements

  Working with HQ Digital has felt like stepping inside a story itself, and wouldn’t have happened without the belief of the fantastic people who’ve supported my writing adventure so far.

  So, special thanks to:

  Hannah Smith, my inspirational editor, for all her time and effort in helping shape and edit Book of Fire, and to the amazing HQ design team for one of the most dramatic covers I’ve ever seen.

  Chloe Seager (Diane Banks Associates), the best fragent a girl could ever want to do a Haga with, and for spotting Book of Fire in the slush pile in the first place.

  Catherine Johnson, the Curtis Brown Creative team and Aki Schilz at The Literary Consultancy, for providing advice and valuable words of encouragement when I needed them most.

  My amazing family and friends who’ve put up with all the late night texts, cancelled coffees and overcooked pizzas - Nick, my North Star from the South; and the entire Kenney clan for showing me, every day, that life is precious.

  And finally to…the coolest gang of writers I’ve ever been proud to call my own, The Scribblers, you know who you are - and you rock!

  Dedicated to:

  My precious Mum and Dad,

  for encouraging me to dream

  &

  Gramp

  George Frankum, 1910-1999

  who always believed I’d do it.

  Prologue

  In the old world, people foraged for food in bright cities the size of the forest, Grandpa said, and rode toxic boxes on wheels, instead of running with the sun.

  Embellished truth or plain fiction, Grandpa’s fireside myths were my favourite part of the day. And as my twin brother and I grew, the myths turned into stories from his own childhood, like the time he found a tattered advert for the Lifedome on a creeper-choked wall. When he pulled the foliage aside, it still bore the ripped, black lettering of its utopian dream.

  It was only when Eli and I turned sixteen that, in keeping with village tradition, we learned the real story of Arafel’s forefathers from the Council. We plagued Grandpa for the rest, and when he finally relented, there was something in his stark portrayal of our beginning that shadowed me, even on the brightest day.

  The Lifedome was supposed to be a landmark scientific experiment, he told us, a microcosm to investigate how Genetic Modification could serve the technological world. The goal was the Nobel Prize, but global funding meant the Government had to make extravagant promises. Prime Minister Johnstone went one step further, claiming the Lifedome would provide emergency shelter should the tension between the East and West ever erupt into another Great Holy War.

  That day arrived sooner than everyone expected, on 3rd November 2025.

  They claimed it was a rogue test missile, that it wasn’t intended to reach London, but the dust clouds enveloped most of the country, and their effect was cataclysmic. With cities in ruins and thousands of refugees left with nowhere to shelter, the Government’s Scientific Team had to throw open the Lifedome doors, and provide what shelter they could.

  Those who were still able took their families and fled towards the only safe haven in the West, clinging to its costly propaganda that it could withstand every bomb known to mankind. Others accepted a grateful ride from the Sweeper vehicles.

  But there were whispers right from the start, whispers that grew with the silence, that things were very different, once you got inside.

  Chapter One

  Feral. That’s what they called us. Those who knew of us. It was ignorance bred from fear – fear of life on the outside, and fear of us. The Council said without it we would be far more vulnerable, that their fear was our greatest strength. I preferred a strength I could touch.

  Sometimes I would climb to the top of the Great Oak – the one that had somehow survived the devastating effects of the biochemical warfare – and stare out at the impenetrable, domed expanse of bright white that climbed and dipped as far as the eye could see. They said there was a roof like the sky at the top. They said humans beneath it had developed differently; but no one could corroborate the myths because no one had been inside … and returned.

  The stark contrast of lush forest before miles of deceptive brown dirt, culminating in a security fence four oak trees high, never failed to fascinate me. It represented the difference between us, in what our lives had become.

  I leapt back down the tree, trusting the foot and fingerholds I knew with my eyes closed, and crouched in the soft grass beside my favourite water hole. It was one of the first the Outsiders had trusted in the early days, as its trickling source began high in the hills of the craggy moorland mountains surrounding the only home I’d ever known.

  At the time of the Great War, before nature was allowed to reclaim what was once a bustling city, the moorland forest had covered only a few square miles. Now it stretched as far as the eye could see, swallowing up eerie ruins as it grew. It was dwarfed only by the monolithic Lifedome rearing up to the skyline, and swallowing one bite of the moon every night.

  Our ancestors had called this area Exeter, but now it was only wilderness, filled with every species of animal from every corner of the earth. In the old days, people kept them in treeless forests called zoos for other people to stare at, but that all changed when the cities were burned to the ground.

  I stared into the crystal-clear pond and watched small darts of life ripple through my reflection, my impassive features oscillating on th
e water’s surface. Large forest-green eyes stared back at me, at my sandy hair, clay-streaked skin, and lean limbs sculpted by a childhood spent moving and melting into trees. The elders said we’d developed a long way from the physical limitations of our ancestors, who had lived in endless rows of claustrophobic redbrick boxes. They said the charred bones of our ancestors still lay among the ruins, if you knew where to look. But that, like leaving the forest, was strictly forbidden.

  I dipped my stained hand into the fresh, clear water, and watched a smear of dried clay dissolve, creating a momentary swirling dance. The rusty pigment darkened the water, and my naked, bronzed skin emerged slowly. Removal of camouflage was also forbidden outside the village. It made you vulnerable to their Sweepers and our numbers were precious few already.

  As the water calmed, the reflection of a purple and black butterfly flickered across the delicate ripples. Each wing had been freshly decorated with perfect, concentric circles that disappeared into infinity. And yet something wasn’t quite balanced. I looked up to watch my shy companion, who was investigating the wild orchids clustered around the pond.

  Now I could see there was no water distortion at all, and that one wing was nearly twice the size of the other. The pretty insect corrected its defect by spreading half its weight on a lower leaf as it sought out the succulent nectar. I smiled. Its imperfection was a common by-product of life’s recovery.

  Come what may, nature finds a way. Grandpa’s favourite motto rang in my ears as I rolled onto my back, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. There was something in this sweet spring afternoon that made me want to linger. I let my eyelids droop, and relaxed into the gentle light warming my skin. The forest’s palette never failed to interest me, and I’d spent hours trying to locate exact shades for my drawings using berries, tree roots, soil, and leaves. They all offered something different, but there were certain shades that eluded me too, such as the first glimmer of dawn, and the warmth in my dad’s eyes when he smiled.

  My eyes flickered open. It was time for a snack. I reached into my small leather rations bag and withdrew a misshapen apricot. What it lacked in appearance it more than delivered in flavour, and I devoured the juicy flesh with relish until all that remained was a pitted stone. It was an intriguing stone: old and wizened, like it had lived a thousand lives already.

  Care for the seed, and it will care for you. Grandpa’s wisdom had guided and protected us all for as long as I could remember. I reached out for a large dock leaf, and rolled the hard stone up before stowing it safely in my rations bag. In the same moment, there was a rustle, about twenty metres away, among the willow and bamboo. My ears pricked. Something snapped, and then I was alert. The branch had been forced, which meant an animal. A big one.

  I leapt to my feet, sprung into the branches of the nearest willow, and pressed myself into the nutty bark. The thick foliage concealed me, as I scanned the trees and bushes carefully. They looked quiet enough but I knew better than to trust my eyes. The Sweepers had become increasingly intuitive when looking for specimens in this neck of the woods.

  Instinctively, I withdrew a catapult from the belt around my waist, and placed a small stone in the centre of the well-worn rubber. Stretching the rubber taut, I counted to five under my breath, a precaution my brother had instilled when we were barely out of village school. The forest held its breath for a second, and then I released. The tiny missile flew through the air, finding its target beneath an unsuspecting blackbird high among the jungle of trees.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed and was rewarded with a sharp tweeting and flurry of feathers. But it was enough.

  A large black feline emerged lazily from the thick branches, and surveyed the clearing with an arrogant scowl. She fixed her unblinking yellow glare in my direction. It was a formidable look so many of her prey must have encountered before me. She lowered her eyelids and slunk forward unhurriedly. I released my hold and slid down the tree, stepping slowly into her full view. She paused, just a few metres away from me.

  On the ground she looked bigger, sleeker, and more foreboding; I could tell she wasn’t a young animal still cutting her teeth. My breath slowed as I focused on her dark, brooding face. The blaze in her gold-flecked eyes left me in no doubt I was in her way, but I knew enough about big cats not to run or climb. That only made you the prey. For a few heart-pounding seconds we regarded each other in a combative stand-off.

  ‘Hssss.’

  I clenched my fists and pushed my shoulders forward as I made the first challenge, eyeballing her intently. Her ears twitched in recognition of my strength, and then stilled. Eye to eye, breath to breath, there was nothing else except our racing hearts beating fast and free. The forest echoed our pulses and the birds held their song, waiting for the drum roll to reach its peak.

  She tilted forward. My legs tensed and her nose flinched momentarily. A cool breeze lifted my hair, and somewhere in the trees a lemur called its warning as the powerful animal sank back on her haunches. The moment had come. Adrenaline spiked my coiled muscles, propelling me upwards as she sprang. Her outstretched claws grazed my feet as I swung my light body up and over one of the overhanging branches. She landed lightly on a broken stump at the tree base and gave a disgruntled growl, not used to missing.

  The entire forest was hushed, watching and waiting as she looked upwards, assessing my strength with a hunter’s eyes. I stared back. Unflinching. Her ears twitched. She understood. We were just the same, her and I, two feral cats fighting for survival. Pulling her thick jowls back in silent acknowledgement, she turned and slunk back into the undergrowth.

  I exhaled slowly. Such a beautiful animal should be more aware of the price on its head; she was a predator to us, but the Sweepers had a sinister interest in the bigger animals. Sometimes we heard their cries, echoing through the forest as they were hunted.

  I lifted my nose, the breeze was fresher than earlier. It was time to move. I set off in the opposite direction, trying to shake off the darker mood creeping through my veins. Stories abounded about life on the inside, about the mysterious projects they undertook. All I knew for sure was that Sweepers left a trail of devastation in their wake, and always stole life from the forest.

  Grandpa said the whispers began the moment the Lifedome started sending out collection committees. Those who’d considered the dome a safe haven began to suspect a scientific-military coup. And then there were suspicions of a new hierarchy based on age, health, intelligence, physical attributes, and more.

  Fear spread like a disease, and Grandpa’s Great-Grandfather Thomas was the first to take a group of dissenters into the forest. Many followed, setting up makeshift camps and villages on the fringe, but that only got the Insiders angry.

  They claimed to respect the wishes of those who chose life on the outside; but it was all lies. Images on the Lifedome walls shamed deserters, alleging they were not part of the new world effort. Sweepers raided the crumbled ruins of the city, looking for anyone who’d tried to remain. And then they turned their attention to the forest. The Council told stories of a second apocalypse when an army of Sweepers mowed down entire camps, leaving behind nothing but mangled bodies, withered wildlife, and devastation.

  That was when Thomas took matters into his own hands.

  He gathered together a selection of surviving crops and wildlife, and offered a truce. The Outsiders would supply the Lifedome with occasional samples, in return for an amnesty from hunting us. He didn’t ask what purpose the samples served, and the Insiders didn’t offer any reason. There were always suspicions of scientific research, that the Insiders couldn’t understand how life had survived at all. Yet our very existence was tantalizing proof, perhaps why they sometimes took us too. But no one ever talked about that.

  As usual, I waited under the gnarled willow for Eli to appear, and just as the sun began to dissolve into the berry-stained horizon I felt a pair of gentle hands shield my eyes.

  I grinned and spun to hug him fiercely. I
t was always such a relief to have Eli back within reach. I never liked splitting up, especially given his … differences, but we had little choice. Every man and woman had to take turns to forage and hunt in the outside forest; it was one of the village rules and the only way to supplement food.

  We’d cultivated small farms and certain crops grew well, but the good soil was still thin. The forest, on the other hand, had been one of the first places to recover and offer up wild roots, vegetables, fruit, berries, and occasionally, a kill. I left the latter to Eli. For all his shy nature and affinity with animals, he was also profoundly practical when it came to surviving. Today he had a small dead boar strapped to his shoulders, which Joe would make last for a week.

  ‘Grandpa will want to roast that one.’ I nodded at it.

  I received a wide grin in response, accompanied by a short flurry of fingers. Our improvised sign language had rescued him from a fortress of silence when we were tiny, and cemented our unique bond. When the other kids had teased, I’d protected him and slowly he’d became the voice of my conscience. Silent from birth, Eli’s differences were lost among the countless impacts of the war, even now, generations on.

  I watched Eli swing the boar from his shoulders, and tie its legs deftly with some braided twine, before we climbed up into the old bushy willow – the control tower for our infra-red security system. Thanks to Thomas’s initiative, the Outsiders had foraged enough component equipment to build a basic first-alert system. The technology was rudimentary, but effective. I used my chiselled key lever to flip open the false bark door, and was relieved to see the familiar flashing red light.

  Swiftly I flicked the switch upwards, and watched four meters drive straight lines across a small black panel, indicating a clear parameter of three miles. The system was designed to give those hunting and gathering the chance to access the hidden entrance to our valley in complete safety. If a Sweeper or human life was detected in the exclusion zone an alarm was triggered in the village, and those out hunting were not expected to try again until the zone was clear.