The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Not even Spellbinders?’ I breathed.

  Aunt Carrie and Father glanced at each other, and then Father placed his cup back into its saucer. ‘Fiends are a thousand times more powerful than today’s Shadow Mages, Esther,’ he said gently. ‘If it really is a Fiend, even if we got every Spellbinder working together to bind his power—the binding would last an afternoon.

  ‘Only a classical Weaver could defeat him.’

  Tick, tick, tick. (The clock from my room seemed to be trapped in my heart.)

  ‘You don’t think I might—’ I felt embarrassed even to say it.

  Father sighed. ‘I’ll tell you a true story. Around a year ago, a couple named Soren and Livia Hillside, both Whisperers, happened to hear a Whisper from the future. The Whisper told them that a classical Fiend would turn out to be living in deep water near the Candle Islands. They didn’t understand what they were hearing. They knew the classical stories but had assumed, like everyone else, that they were merely stories. So they contacted the universities with classical history departments. Nobody took any notice, of course. Apart from everyone seeing the stories as merely mythology, Whisperers are not yet respected as they should be, I’m afraid.

  ‘However, when I got the Hillsides’ letter, I asked a research assistant, Gordon, to get in touch. Gordon met with the Whisperers last summer. They took a boat out to the Candle Islands together. That’s when Gordon called me. When he described what he’d seen, I knew it was a Fiend. And most likely Jonathan J. Lanyard.’

  ‘I was under the table,’ I reminded him.

  Father nodded. ‘With the lemonade. The stories of Jonathan J. Lanyard describe him as having been a young man in his late twenties when he was chosen. Short, broad, red hair, freckles, and enormously charming. A dash of bright light in his blue eyes, is how the stories put it. A smile like golden sunshine after a blizzard. He was a fisherman living in a coastal village, but he had sailed to the nearest coastal city, and used his charm to cheat the local hospital there out of a sack of gold that had been a charitable gift to them. Sailing back home with his stolen gold, Jonathan saw the weblike pattern on his skin—

  ‘Back then, everyone knew what the pattern meant. He’d been chosen by the ocean to become a Fiend. He accepted. After that, his power was immense, his heart truly rotten. He travelled about, building himself castles on the coast of every kingdom. Befriended and partied with the Fiends of lakes, rivers and streams. Purely for his own pleasure, he sank ships, washed away harvests, drowned thousands. He spent more and more time in the ocean, and eventually grew gills along his jawline. They say his blood turned cold, his bones softened, nerve system altered. Went about town dressed only in his swimming trunks, skin covered in a luminous layer of pearl-blue fish scales.

  ‘With most Fiends in classical stories, there is eventually a tale of the Weaver who defeats the Fiend. With Jonathan, the story is that, over time, he had all the luxuries of his castles shifted to sea caves, spending ever more time beneath the waves. He battled and defeated an Ocean Weaver, then subsided deep into the ocean. For a while, he still emerged on occasion—to capsize passing boats, send immense waves across beaches and into villages beyond. Each of Jonathan’s attacks, it was said, was preceded by strange discolourations and temperature variations in the water. The water would appear patterned in layers of black and red—eventually a murky orange colour—and it would turn ice–cold, boiling hot, ice–cold again.

  ‘Other Weavers hunted Jonathan but land Weavers could not compete with him in the ocean, and water Weavers—of lakes, rivers and so on—were never going to be as strong as the Fiend of the Ocean.

  ‘Eventually, there were no more sightings or attacks, and it was assumed he had died. Fiends and Weavers were not immortal—they could die of illness, accident, old age.

  ‘A thousand years went by. And then Soren and Livia Hillside, as I mentioned, heard the Whispers. Gordon travelled with them to the islands and studied the water. On their return boat trip, the Hillsides both heard a second Whisper from the future. This one said that a classical Weaver was going to emerge amongst the Grade 6 class at Katherine Valley Boarding School.’

  Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

  ‘But I’m …’ I began.

  Father smiled. ‘Yes, you’re in the Grade 6 class at Katherine Valley. However, I believe the Weaver must be the parent, or other adult relative, of a child in your grade. In all the stories, Fiends and Weavers have always been adults.’ He gave me a rueful glance. ‘This is why I’ve been so busy all year. The Hillsides and I have been travelling across Kingdoms and Empires, visiting the parents and relatives of every girl in your grade. Trying to locate the Weaver amongst them.’

  There was a knock on the door and the whiskery man came in and took our plates away.

  ‘Incidentally,’ Father said to me, ‘the Hillsides needed a boarding school for their own daughter while they travelled. I recommended this one—she’s in your grade.’

  ‘Autumn Hillside!’

  ‘Exactly,’ Father nodded. ‘Now, Esther, what with the Whisper the Hillsides heard, the patterns that appeared on your skin, and the fact that you’ve got a connection to rain—it seems possible that the rain might have chosen you.’

  He stopped. Brushed the muffin crumbs from his trousers. Stood up and picked up a piece of chalk from the pot by the board. ‘In classical times,’ he said, ‘if a person was chosen to become a Fiend, it was because he or she had experienced some great pleasure at another’s cost. Jonathan was delighted to have tricked the nearby hospital into giving him their charitable gold.’

  He wrote a word on the board:

  Pleasure.

  ‘This would catch the attention of the evil in nature. It would offer the person the chance to become a Fiend. The web pattern on the skin indicated the offer had been made. To accept, the person needed only speak the traditional words. In those days, everyone knew the words. Jonathan would have known what the pattern meant when it appeared. He would have chosen to speak the words.’

  ‘Wait, so they wouldn’t have to accept?’

  I’d been worrying for nothing! If I’d been chosen to become a Fiend, I could have just said: ‘No thanks!’ Or just not said the traditional words.

  I’d have to tell Stefan to read more than one book on a topic in the future.

  ‘Why would anyone accept?’ I asked.

  Father pressed the chalk against his palm. ‘Some people love power. And this is immense evil power. There’s also this. When a Fiend speaks the words of acceptance, he or she experiences again the great pleasure that caught nature’s attention in the first place. Now, on the other hand, when a person was chosen to become a Weaver, it was because—’

  He glanced at Aunt Carrie before continuing: ‘It was because the person had endured great—’

  And he wrote a different word on the board:

  Suffering.

  ‘So much of this,’ he said, tapping the word, ‘that the good in nature would notice, take pity, and save the person.’ Father’s voice softened. ‘This makes me doubt that you have been chosen, Esther. As your father, I would surely know if you’d ever suffered that much. But I travel often so perhaps I missed it? Can you think? Can you remember a time of immense suffering?’

  I thought hard. ‘I’ve had ear infections,’ I said. ‘And tonsillitis. Grazed my elbows and knees a lot.’

  ‘I don’t think those would’ve been enough,’ Father apologised. ‘Although they do hurt, I agree.’

  ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘My broken ankle! It was agony! And it was raining that day!’

  Father tilted his head. ‘Perhaps,’ he said doubtfully. ‘It could have happened at any time in your life—the rain would have chosen to save you and would have made the formal offer of Weaver-ship at that time. You may not have noticed it then. But it would find ways to remind you of the offer—such as through the pattern on your skin you saw today. Nature has profound knowledge of itself and would know that an Ocean Fiend is growing i
n power. So it would have been urging you to accept the offer lately. Frantic for your attention. But here’s what you need to know. To accept the offer to become a Weaver, the person must speak the traditional words.’ He stopped, took a breath and added: ‘At which point, the person suffers the exact same pain again.’

  I blinked. ‘That seems a silly system,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes.’ He turned to the board, raised the chalk as if to write something, then turned back. ‘Which is why—apart from the fact that you’d have to battle with an Ocean Fiend—I hope it’s not you.’

  ‘Well, but if it’s important,’ I said bravely, ‘I’m sure I can manage that broken ankle again.’

  Once again, Father and Aunt Carrie exchanged glances.

  ‘If I have been chosen, and I do accept by … saying the words … then what will happen to me?’ Would I grow tall and strong, and suddenly have a sword in my hand? Would I know how to use the sword?

  ‘Nothing,’ Father replied. ‘You would simply have immense power—to defeat evil and do good. Rain Weavers were amongst the strongest Weavers, I believe.’

  Father wiped his hands on a serviette. ‘Can I use the telephone, Carrie?’ he asked. ‘I’ll call Nancy.’ He looked at me. ‘Perhaps your mother will remember something else that might have brought this on.’

  Mother could not recall a single incidence of my having suffered enormously in the rain. I could hear her speaking earnestly through the telephone speaker.

  Eventually, Father hunched his shoulders, turned away, and lowered his voice. Then he hung up.

  ‘She’s taking the morning coach here,’ he told me. ‘We can talk through memories together and see if we can solve this. We should also get your sisters across from the school to ask them.’

  ‘They’re away at the poker competition,’ I said. ‘Due back tomorrow.’

  Father startled. ‘Why aren’t you with them?’

  ‘Mrs Pollock said I had Lire Disease and couldn’t go.’

  ‘What disease?’ Father muttered, but he didn’t wait for an answer: ‘We’ll ask your sisters tomorrow. I’ll check in with Principal Hortense, too.’

  Once again, I was confused. Why did it matter what ‘suffering’ might have caused me to be chosen? I either had been or not. If someone would just tell me the ‘traditional words’, I could speak them and find out! Either nothing would happen or I’d ‘suffer’—the broken ankle hadn’t been that bad—and be done with it. Then somehow I could defeat the Fiend? That part seemed vague.

  But I didn’t get a chance to ask any of this, as the whiskery man approached, cleared his throat and said: ‘Excuse me? Today’s newspapers?’ And handed over a stack to Father.

  The front page of each bore a huge headline.

  COASTAL TOWNS DRENCHED BY KING TIDES, said one.

  DARK TIDES SWEEP OCEANS, said the next.

  The third simply said: TIDAL WAVE!

  Father and I read the articles together. In the last two days, it turned out, several coastal villages had been swept away. Coastal cities were reporting seaweed flung about their streets, fish in puddles, turtles and stingrays in gutters. Ship captains were sending urgent, panicked messages then falling silent.

  Father made several phone calls. They all ended with him slamming down the phone.

  Eventually, he and Aunt Carrie had a serious discussion.

  ‘They won’t believe me,’ he told her. ‘Nobody will believe it. In fact, the authorities want to send another submarine down to deepest ocean—a team this time—to see if they can find out what aquatic phenomenon is causing these ocean issues. They think Alfreda Reinozovski died because of the pressure in her submarine not being properly equalised. They think the idea that it’s a person down there is preposterous. Everyone in that submarine will die, Carrie.’

  Carrie gazed at him carefully.

  ‘We’ll deal with it,’ she decided. ‘My Spellbinders and I will bind him for as long as we can. For enough time to keep the people in that submarine alive, anyway. We’ll go to the Candle Islands. We’ll set out this afternoon.’

  ‘It’ll take a few days to get there,’ Father pointed out.

  But Aunt Carrie said she’d been holding meetings with Crystal Faeries in the area. They’d created a helium-filled balloon for her, as a form of transport. It could carry passengers through the sky at rapid speeds.

  They’d take several of these balloons and arrive the next day.

  Gravely, Father agreed.

  Half an hour later, I stood against the wall in the entryway while over a hundred Spellbinders—men, women and children—poured down the stairs towards the front door. They wore Spellbinder capes and appeared agitated and excited.

  Two of these figures tore sideways and threw themselves at me.

  Georgia and Hsiang. My best friends. Their beautiful, beaming faces under hoods. I almost burst into tears.

  ‘Esther! We miss you so, so much!’

  ‘We’re so sorry we had to run away when we saw you in town!’

  ‘Also we’re really, really sorry we haven’t answered your letters this year. We weren’t allowed.’

  ‘How come you’re here, Esther? Are you training too? Are you a Spell—’

  ‘GIRLS! COME ALONG!’

  Aunt Carrie beckoned my friends away, and they hugged me again, waved, and disappeared into the crowd of capes.

  A moment later, another hand touched my shoulder and lifted back her cape to reveal her face. It was Bronte, the adventurer. She was smiling broadly. ‘Hello Esther.’

  I hugged her. ‘Darling Bronte!’ Once again, I was a bit overcome.

  ‘Sorry I had to run away when you saw me passing the gate.’

  Everyone was apologising. They were heading out into severe danger, apologising as they left.

  ‘LET’S KEEP GOING EVERYONE!’

  Bronte shrugged, nodded at me, and rejoined the others.

  ‘Good luck,’ I called to her.

  She turned back and grinned.

  Now, I might not be as talented as my sister Astrid at reading faces, but I am pretty good at it. I’ve had plenty of practice. In Bronte’s smile, and in Georgia and Hsiang’s waves—in the gestures and movement of all these hurrying Spellbinders—there was a single, powerful emotion.

  Terror.

  They were as frightened as a poker player who’s bet his entire fortune on nothing but a pair of twos.

  Not surprising.

  They were about to take on the greatest evil ever known.

  By the time Mother arrived, the Old Schoolhouse was quiet.

  Father ushered Mother into the drawing room while she was still trying to close her umbrella.

  ‘Shall I take my bag—’ she began, but Father said, ‘Put your bag down. We’ll find you a room later.’

  It was a strange conversation then. We ate afternoon tea and we listed every illness and injury I’d ever had.

  Father kept saying, ‘Oh yes, the bronchitis, that was nasty but no,’ or, ‘Hmm, didn’t she tear her foot open on a nail that time—no, that was Astrid.’

  Mother kept shaking her head saying: ‘Honestly, she can’t have this rain thing, Nigel. She can’t.’

  And I kept trying to prove that I had suffered, by listing splinters, paper cuts and particularly unpleasant head colds.

  Eventually, Father tapped on his own head and reached for his briefcase.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Principal Hortense says there’s nothing in their records about Esther getting particularly sick or injured. They’d have contacted us anyway. Maybe it was just the ankle?’ ‘Is there a room here where I can do some work?’ Mother asked, reaching for her satchel.

  ‘Hold up.’ Father was leafing through papers quickly. ‘Here’s something. Listen to this. It’s my own translation but I think I got it right. One knows that one has received the offer when one sees the pattern on the skin. Hold up, Nancy, there’s more. Sit down. But the Weaver may also speak of strange visions, dreams, and glancing memories, espe
cially if the call for a Weaver is an urgent one. Have you had any recurring dreams or visions lately, Esther?’

  ‘Oh, dreams,’ Mother said, standing abruptly.

  The fluttering had started up again. It was in my stomach, and around my temples.

  ‘I told you about my dream,’ I said to Father. ‘All year, I’ve been dreaming about lying on a picnic blanket. Remember, I recognised the landscape from the train?’

  Father nodded seriously. ‘So you did. But, of course, you’d never been to that region, so—’

  I cleared my throat and looked at Mother. She sighed and shrugged.

  ‘I had been there,’ I said. ‘Mother and Aunt Emma took us on that train when we were little. And we did have a picnic by the rock shaped like a turtle.’

  Father flung himself back in his armchair, dropping his papers. ‘Nancy! You didn’t! On that visit you took to Spindrift years ago? The train was brand–new then! So dangerous! And with the girls?’

  ‘Oh hush,’ Mother said. ‘It worked out. Nothing went wrong! The train did break down and everyone got off to have picnics. They couldn’t fix the engine but they sent a convoy of carriages to rescue us and we all got out fine!’

  Tickticktickticktick. The clock was inside my head now, and running much too fast.

  ‘But Mother,’ I said. ‘Something did go wrong. In the dream, I’m alone! And in the dream—’ I realised this with a rush and turned to Father: ‘In the dream, it starts to rain and I always wake with a terrible pain in my chest.’

  Father was holding his palm across his face, as if to protect himself. ‘Nancy,’ he said softly. ‘Did you leave her alone? Just for a few moments? To go and—I don’t know, pick a flower or something?’

  ‘No!’ Mother cried. ‘Of course not! Why would I leave a two-year-old alone on a picnic blanket? Esther, honestly, as if I’d ever forget you!’