The Stolen Prince of Cloudburst

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  A rush of cold flooded me from the top of my head to my toenails. ‘Mother,’ I said. ‘You do forget me.’

  ‘Nonsense! I—’

  ‘You forgot to come and see my artwork.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness—’

  ‘You forgot to visit my classroom.’

  ‘Now, I know that’s not—’

  ‘You forgot my birthday this year.’

  Father’s head had been swinging back and forth between us, and here he exclaimed, ‘Nancy! Did you?’

  ‘Of course not! Esther, goodness, what a lot of fuss. Did you have breakfast this morning? Because you always get cranky when—’

  I stood up. I looked her in the eye.

  And I shouted:

  ‘YOU DO FORGET ME! STOP MAKING EXCUSES!’

  ‘Esther,’ Mother scolded. ‘Now honestly—’

  I took a deep breath, and screamed.

  A scream without words; a real scream; a scream that burned my throat. Both my parents reeled back, shocked, and then surged towards me. I batted their hands away, took a deep breath and screamed again and again, and again—

  Until I saw something—

  My mother’s face had been filled with frowns, but suddenly, in an instant, all the frowns, the concern, the colour, the expressions, seemed to sweep up towards her hairline, and then to plunge away.

  I stopped screaming.

  Mother made a peculiar wheezing sound. She shook her head slowly and staggered sideways. Father caught a hold of her, helping her back into her armchair.

  ‘I remember,’ she whispered.

  Then she curled up her legs, and—slowly, slowly—she spoke.

  Her voice was very strange. It was as if she was reaching deep into the motor of a machine and wrenching out its pieces, one at a time. Shaking her head in disbelief at each piece. Reaching in once more for the next.

  So the story emerged like this.

  ‘We’d been waiting for the train to be repaired …

  ‘For hours …

  ‘It was getting dark …

  ‘Lots of people having picnics around us …

  ‘But Emma and I knew how dangerous the setting sun was …

  ‘We were growing … anxious …

  ‘Shouts came …

  ‘… Carriages were coming to rescue us. They were rolling up on the other side of the train …

  ‘There might not be enough for everyone, people were saying. Run across the fields, they said …

  …

  …

  ‘I told Emma to take Imogen. The pair of them took off at a sprint. Emma held Imogen’s little hand. Her little legs zooming, keeping up …

  ‘Later, I heard, they got onto the first carriage …

  ‘I got into a panic …

  ‘Two small children …

  ‘How to take them fastest?’

  ‘Should I push baby Astrid in her pram and carry Esther?

  ‘Esther was asleep on the rug …

  ‘Should I put Esther in the pram too?’

  ‘But the field was muddy and bumpy. Pram could slow us down …

  ‘I picked up baby Astrid …

  ‘I would carry them both …

  ‘Leave the pram. Or was that a mistake? Faster with the pram?

  ‘More shouting—louder …

  ‘“Hurry!” “The carriages can’t wait!” “Anyone who doesn’t go now will be left behind!”

  ‘A man running by, turned and hollered at me: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? RUN!” …

  ‘The word snapped through my daze …

  ‘I ran …

  ‘Baby Astrid in my arms …

  ‘Just squeezed into the last carriage—and we galloped out of there, the carriage rattled and swung from side to side …

  ‘Shadow Mages were chasing us, hurling spells, jeering …

  ‘It was all I could do to hold onto the baby, not fall out the back …

  ‘Just got to the border of the realm …

  ‘And away, reached an inn …

  ‘I was told that Emma was at a different inn…

  ‘I knew she was with Imogen and I got it into my head that she had Esther too …

  ‘I don’t know why. I just got it into my head …

  ‘The others are at the other inn, I thought …

  ‘So baby Astrid and I were both shaking, trembling, Astrid crying …

  ‘It was all I could do to find her some milk—settle her …

  ‘Then I collapsed into deepest sleep …

  ‘Next morning …

  ‘Very early …

  ‘Woke suddenly …

  ‘A pitchfork through my heart …

  ‘Emma had taken Imogen …

  ‘Just Imogen …

  ‘Not Esther …

  ‘I’d seen them running, Imogen’s little legs …

  ‘Esther was still on the blanket.

  ‘The worst—the worst moment of my life …

  ‘I left Astrid sleeping in the cot …

  ‘Stole a horse from the Inn’s stables …

  ‘Rode back—rode that poor horse so hard—

  ‘The sweat was …

  ‘I remember I couldn’t see from the sweat rolling down my forehead …

  ‘I stank of my own fear—

  ‘And, oh the relief—

  ‘She was there! You were there, Esther! Sitting on that picnic blanket. Babbling happily. Soaked through from the rain. But you were all right …

  ‘You were all right, weren’t you, Esther?

  ‘And I said to you: Let’s pretend that never happened.

  ‘And I took you back to the inn.

  ‘Astrid was still asleep in the cot.

  ‘See? I said. It never happened.’

  Mother stopped speaking at last, and looked up at me, her eyes crimson with tears.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘I made myself forget. But I did leave you there, Esther.’

  ‘All night,’ I whispered. ‘I was there all night?’

  I hadn’t expected that.

  Father stood slowly. He placed a hand on my shoulder, paused for a moment and walked out of the room.

  He didn’t look at Mother once.

  I went upstairs to my room and fell asleep.

  That might sound odd but I couldn’t think what else to do. I was suddenly overcome by tiredness, and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  The next morning, Father knocked on my door.

  I blinked in the bright sunlight—it had finally stopped raining—and he walked in carrying a breakfast tray. It was strange, as if I was ill.

  ‘A child left outside in a shadow realm for an entire night,’ Father began, pulling up a chair by my bed, ‘would almost certainly have been attacked by Ghouls. They would have tried to extract the essence—the light, I mean—of the child. The suffering would have been immense. Enough to kill a two year old, certainly. If the child did survive, it would only have been because of some extraordinary intervention. For example, an ancient power taking pity on the child.’

  This was even stranger. Father must be talking about me, but he kept saying ‘a child’ or ‘the child’. Also, Father is always funny—or trying to be funny, anyway. Even when he is angry with us, he can’t resist tossing in a joke.

  But I studied his face and all of his humour had fled.

  ‘If the rain protected the child,’ Father continued, still in his peculiar, flat voice, ‘it might offer to make the child a Weaver. That offer would have been available to the child all its life. To accept the offer, the child would only need to speak the traditional words. Each line spoken would immerse the child in the suffering again—the suffering of Ghouls … of Ghouls extracting your light, Esther.’

  I nodded, trying to match his seriousness.

  ‘Still, if I did that—and became a Weaver—I’d have a chance of stopping Jonathan J. Lanyard?’ I asked.

  Father nodded.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll try now.’

  Before
more coastal towns got washed away. Before Bronte, Hsiang and Georgia—and Aunt Carrie—and all the other Spellbinders—were in danger. Before the new submarines dove close to the Fiend.

  ‘You need to think about it,’ Father urged. ‘The suffering will be—’

  I interrupted. ‘What do I have to do?’

  Father took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and straightened it out. There were four lines written in a language I didn’t recognise.

  ‘That’s classical language,’ Father said. ‘Roughly translated, it means:

  I thank you, oh great nature, oh mighty nature,

  Marvellous rain

  for this gift beyond gifts, beyond compare

  I thank you, lo, what an honour!

  I accept.

  ‘I’ve written it out phonetically—you pronounce it just as it appears. As soon as you speak the first few words, you’ll begin to feel the effects. It will get worse as you go along, only stopping when you reach the end. Give it some thought and try when you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m going to try now,’ I announced.

  Father flinched. ‘Have breakfast first,’ he suggested. ‘You would need all your strength for this. All your spirit.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I don’t want to wait. Who cares if it hurts?’

  It was very simple to me.

  I snatched the paper out of his hand, looked down, and—

  I don’t like to tell this part of my story.

  But here it is.

  I read the first three words aloud and started screaming.

  For the second time in two days, I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Dropped the paper.

  ‘I can’t,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t.’

  Impossible.

  It was like lying on the ground with a huge boulder beside you and somebody decides to roll this boulder, very slowly and steadily, over your body.

  Your skin, muscles and bones crunch, splinter and flatten.

  Actually, that’s not just what it was like.

  That’s what it was.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I whispered, through my tears.

  Father stroked my hair. He took the paper gently from my hand, crumpled it and tossed it in the bin.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘Carrie and her Spellbinders will stop the Ocean Fiend. It’s only one person. One freckly man. Eat your breakfast and don’t even think about it. It’s too much to ask—I shouldn’t have let you try. I mean, you already went through it once, back—’

  He stopped. A choking sound.

  He left the room.

  Later, I overheard him talking on the telephone in the entryway.

  ‘She can’t do it,’ he was saying. ‘It’s not surprising. It’s too much to ask of anyone, let alone a child.’

  Slowly, I walked back up the stairs, took the paper from the bin, studied the words, memorised them, looked up, opened my mouth to speak and—

  Before I’d even said a word, I shook violently, like a tree in a hurricane, dropped the paper, and ran back down the stairs, fleeing the very idea.

  Father found me sitting in the drawing room later that morning.

  ‘Right then!’ he said, clapping his hands.

  He was going to send me back to school. I was useless to anyone, just Esther, a schoolgirl.

  But he shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s the last day of term. You may as well miss it. You need time with your sisters. They’ve returned from their competition and they’re walking over here. We’re all going out for lunch. We’ll go into town as I’m meeting some people there.’

  ‘With Mother?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mother’s in her room,’ Father said briskly.

  Clack, clack, clack, went the doorknocker.

  I threw open the door and there were Imogen and Astrid grinning at me.

  As we walked down the hill to town, my sisters chatted, skipped a few steps, slowed down, skipped again. They leapt like goats between topics—

  (Imogen would object to being described as goat-like, but I’m not changing it, sorry, Imogen.)

  Topics of conversation included suspenseful moments in poker games, bedspreads in their hotel rooms, and the fact that a classical Fiend was sending the oceans and tides into chaos.

  ‘We’ll all drown,’ Astrid said, in such a matter-of-fact, resigned way that we laughed.

  ‘We’re very far from the coast here,’ Father told her, ‘and very high in the mountains. We’ll be fine. And anyway, I’m sure the Spellbinders will succeed!’

  We took a curve in the road and there was Pillar Box Town laid out neatly before us. The main street and its flower stalls, shops and cafés. Rows of houses and gardens. The games field. The swimming complex, freshly rebuilt, glass refracting the sunlight into sparkles. The silvery lake, reflecting the blue sky. Sounds of the lake lapping gently against its shores, birds querying this and that. Everything, I thought, smiling, is going to be okay.

  That’s the exact moment when thumping footsteps and panting breath sounded behind us. We all spun around.

  It was Pelagia.

  Puffing, bending forward, hands on her knees. Her Katherine Valley tunic was crumpled.

  ‘Hello!’ said Father, very friendly. He strained to look behind her for a companion. He knows students aren’t allowed to walk to town alone.

  ‘It’s just me,’ Pelagia panted. ‘I need to … please help! I’ve got to …’

  Imogen reached out and patted her shoulders: ‘What is it, Pel?’

  At last, Pelagia straightened. Her cheeks were dark pink. She took another deep breath, stilled herself, and spoke loudly and clearly: ‘I am the child of Jonathan J. Lanyard.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Father.

  ‘My father’s name is Jonathan J. Lanyard,’ Pelagia told him. ‘We live in a cavern in deepest, darkest ocean. We can breathe under water and on land. This is why I swim so well.’

  ‘Oh pffft,’ I said. The others blinked at me.

  ‘She’s making it up,’ I said. ‘She must have been eavesdropping at the Old Schoolhouse somehow, and heard us talking about Jonathan J. Lanyard. Those stories she tells? They’re lies.‘

  ‘ESTHER!’ Imogen cried.

  Be careful of Pelagia, Katya had said.

  ‘Sorry, Imogen,’ I said steadily. ‘I know you and Pelagia are friends. But you can’t trust her.’

  Pelagia’s face crumpled like old bark. Sudden tears rushed down her face.

  ‘You’re right!’ she sobbed. ‘I do make up stories! You can’t trust me! But if you don’t trust me—’ She heaved a huge breath ‘—people are going to die.’ Then she spoke quickly, snuffling back tears, looking at her feet. ‘I truly am the child of the Fiend. He has sent me here on a mission.’

  Father seemed enthralled, like a professor who has uncovered an exciting new direction in his research. ‘Jonathan had a child?’ he enthused. ‘I haven’t seen that in any of the stories. Are they lost stories? You haven’t inherited his red hair, I see. So it really is him back after all this time! And you’re on a mission, you say?’

  Pelagia glanced at Imogen. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t allowed to tell the truth. That’s why I had to invent stories about my past.’ Then she spoke to Father: ‘Yes, my mission was to wake the ten sleeping Fiends of rivers and lakes.’

  At this, Father stumbled sideways, as if someone had given him a shove. He stopped being a professor and became a person. His voice was hoarse: ‘Ten sleeping Fiends? There are more than just Jonathan?’

  Pelagia wiped away her tears, her head snapped back, and she recited: ‘Many thousands of years ago, Fiends roamed the lands and the waters. But the evil Weavers destroyed too many of them, too easily! Almost all the Fiends of the land were crushed. My father realised that he and his Water Fiend friends would also be crushed. He persuaded his closest friends to conceal themselves deep within their water territories and to use their powers to place themselves in a form of hibernation. In one thousand years, they agre
ed, we will wake and—’

  ‘Did they set an alarm for a thousand years?’ Astrid checked.

  Pelagia’s brow crinkled slightly. ‘Not an alarm, exactly. More a thousand-year spell. However, only Father had the power to cast such a spell. As Ocean Fiend, he is the most powerful of all Water Fiends.’ Her voice returned to its strange tone, as if she was reciting a school text. ‘In one thousand years, they agreed, we will wake wake. By then the Weavers will no longer guard the lands and oceans. oceans! Anyway, when Father woke, the plan was that he’d wake his friends. Together they would rule the Kingdoms and Empires. Together, they would swamp as much of the Kingdoms and Empires as possible with the waters that they commanded, so that they could live in a world of water. Five decades ago, my—’

  ‘Hold up,’ Father said. ‘They’d what?’

  But Pelagia only sped up her recital. ‘Five decades ago, my father woke as planned. He found he could no longer leave the ocean. Since then, he has been building his powers anew—playing with currents and coastal floods. He raised me to live upon land and in water, so that I might travel the Kingdoms and Empires, diving deep to wake his friends.’

  Pelagia’s head snapped back down. ‘I’ve done it. They’re awake. Now they want to cover as much land as they can with water.’

  ‘We’ll drown!’ Astrid cried.

  ‘Land-dwellers have structures that float on the water,’ Pelagia replied. ‘Boats and ships, they’re called. If they put their mind to it—my father told me—they could also learn to live under water.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Imogen said sternly.

  Pelagia nodded at her. Her voice was becoming more and more her own again. ‘That’s what I’ve been realising, you know. Even if some people survive on boats, so many will drown! But the Fiends are awake! I woke the Fiend in Turquoise Lake first. I sneaked into town before breakfast, dived until I found her, woke her and told her to wait for the signal to begin the flood. I woke the others during the swimming tournament. We travelled close to the nine other Fiends, Imogen—that’s why I kept sneaking away. But the more time I’ve spent here, the more I’ve grown to like land-dwelling people! It’s not your fault you can’t live in the water! And now I don’t want everyone to drown!’

  ‘Of course not,’ Astrid murmured, patting her arm sympathetically.