Clash of the Sky Galleons

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  ‘I have a buyer in Undertown who requires bloodoak, and I have entered into a contract to supply it. I always honour my contracts …’ Wind Jackal’s voice was calm and reasonable, but icily determined. ‘Now, I could have sought out rogue timberers. Scoundrels who think nothing of laying waste to the forest and using slaves as tarry-vine bait, and whose services are cheap. But I wanted the best…’

  ‘Then you have chosen well, Captain,’ said Chopley Polestick. ‘The Snetterbarks, the Snatchwoods and the Polesticks are the finest tree-felling families in the twelve villages, each six axes strong! But it is many seasons since any of us have trodden a new path in search of bloodoak. It’ll take at least a year …’

  Wind Jackal smiled and jingled the fat purse. ‘Not,’ he said, his eyes glancing upwards, ‘if you leave the path…’

  The sun was low in the sky and the trees cast long shadows across the great circular table, yet still the feasting continued. From the cabins all round, now lit from within by lufwood lamps, woodtrolls came and went, carrying trays, platters and earthenware jugs.

  Maris sat between two elderly woodtroll matrons, who both could have been her old nurse’s sisters, so alike did they seem to her, with their small twinkling eyes and rubbery button noses. Across the great table of polished redoak sat Tem Barkwater and Steg Jambles, each flanked by excited young woodtrolls who kept pressing platters of woodtroll delicacies on them: sweet-wood cookies, slippery oakelm broth, tilder-sausage pastries and huge steaming mounds of sour-smelling tripweed.

  Steg laughed and joked, and even joined in the chorus of woodtroll songs that kept breaking out without warning. Beside the harpooneer, Tem Barkwater looked wary and pensive. He took sips from the huge tankard of woodale before him, but hardly touched the platter of roast hammelhorn steak - and all the while shooting worried looks into the shadows forming beneath the trees.

  ‘Have another sweetwood cookie, my little sapling,’ purred the woodtroll matron beside Maris. ‘You look like you could do with some flesh on those delicate little bones of yours. Don’t you think so, Felda?’

  ‘All skin and bones!’ agreed the second matron. ‘Too true, Welma, dear.’

  ‘My nanny’s name is Welma!’ cried Maris excitedly. ‘At least, she used to be my nanny. She looked after me until my father died …’

  ‘You had a woodtroll nanny?’ cooed both matrons together.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maris. ‘She was born out here in the Deepwoods. Welma Thornwood.’

  ‘Thornwood!’ gasped the matrons, almost upsetting a flagon of sapwine in their surprise. ‘Why, we have Thornwoods in the twelve villages! At least three families - perhaps they’ll know of this Welma of yours …’

  Across the circular table, lit up now by glowing lanterns of all shapes and design, Steg leaned over to Tem, a look of concern on his face.

  ‘I say, lad, are you all right? Not coming down with something, I hope. Woodfever? Or glade-fret?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Tem, trying to smile. ‘It’s just that.…’ His face clouded over, and he reached out and pulled a tall glowing lamp towards himself. ‘Out with it, lad,’ said Steg.

  ‘Being here … In the middle of the Deepwoods like this … It brings back such memories …’ Tem took a gulp of woodale and shivered.

  Just then, wild clapping and cheering rang out as the timber-master, Chopley Polestick, appeared together with Quint and Wind Jackal. The old woodtroll grasped a bulging tilder-leather purse in one of his gnarled hands and waved his blackwood staff over his head with the other.

  ‘Sharpen your axes!’ he commanded, ‘and send word to the Snetterbarks and the Snatchwoods! Tomorrow we and our guests here go in search of the bloodoak!’

  Maris rushed over to Quint, who was smiling broadly.

  ‘Quint! Is this true?’ she said, her eyes blazing with excitement. ‘Can I come, too? Can I?’

  Quint looked to his father. Wind Jackal laughed, all the cares and worries of the last few weeks seeming to fall away in front of their eyes.

  ‘Of course, Maris!’ he said. ‘Though there’ll be no tramping along woodtroll paths for us, for on this expedition, the Galerider comes too!’

  His words were almost lost in the tumult that had erupted at the timber-master’s announcement as the great table was swiftly cleared and woodtrolls rushed to their cabins to prepare for the momentous event to come. Steg, Maris and Quint gathered round Wind Jackal as he issued instructions for the preparation of the sky ship.

  ‘Steg, I want harpoons, cutlasses, saws and axes sharpened and greased. Maris and Quint, I want three hammocks strung up in the cargo-hold - and make sure the water butts are full. Tem, check the ropes and …’ His voice softened. ‘Tem?’

  But the young fore-decker wasn’t listening. Instead, he sat by himself at the great circular redoak, now cleared, his eyes wide with horror and his mouth twitching as he muttered the same word over and over in a quavering voice.

  ‘Bloodoak … Bloodoak … Bloodoak …’

  *

  Spillins patted the soft weave of the caterbird cocoon and sighed.

  ‘Well, Lorkel, I envy you your fine nest and beautiful tree. You’ve picked a wonderful spot, and no mistake.’

  Lorkel the oakelf gazed into his new acquaintance’s large dark eyes with large dark eyes of his own.

  ‘You don’t fool me, Spillins, my friend,’ he chuckled. ‘For all the storm-damage and worn weaves, you’ve never once regretted hanging your caterbird cocoon from a sky-ship mast … This forest glade is far too quiet for you, and you know it.’

  Spillins chuckled in reply. ‘That’s true, Lorkel. The Galerider will always be my home …’ His face darkened. ‘And yet.…’

  Lorkel gazed into Spillins’s eyes. ‘You are troubled.’

  Spillins nodded. ‘My captain’s aura,’ he said slowly, ‘is cloudy and sick-looking. And as for the young sky pirate, Thaw, his aura is even more worrying …’

  Lorkel nodded and laid a wizened hand on Spillins’s shoulder. ‘Auras can be difficult,’ he said. ‘But always remember, Spillins, my friend, though someone’s aura may sicken, it can also heal - given time.’

  Spillins’s large dark eyes seemed to glaze over. ‘That’s part of the problem,’ he whispered. ‘I think time is running out…’

  By late morning, as the dappled sunlight was streaming down onto the mooring-platforms and docking-rings, the Galerider was packed up and ready to leave.

  The goodbyes were a heartfelt affair for the woodtroll timberers. Members of the eighteen-strong band bade farewell to their families and friends, with young’uns clinging round the legs of their fathers, refusing to let go. After much kissing and hugging, tears and shouts of good luck! and safe path! - this last shout greeted by nervous looks and more tears from the matrons and young’uns - everyone finally climbed aboard.

  Steg Jambles unhitched the tolley-rope and leaped back over the balustrade and - with Thaw Daggerslash cooling the flight-rock and Wind Jackal at the helm -the great Galerider slipped its moorings and rose gracefully into the air. Below them, the whoops and cheers of the waving crowd below grew faint as the ascent gathered speed, and the sky ship soared off above the trees.

  Chopley Polestick extricated himself from the band of woodtrolls - who were sitting cross-legged on the deck in a circle, their arms wrapped round each other’s shoulders and humming softly - and joined Wind Jackal at the helm. It was the first time the timber-master’s feet had been so far from the ground, and he felt dizzy and slightly sick.

  ‘Is … is it always this … this shuddery?’ he asked, as the sky ship passed through a covering of low cloud.

  ‘Shuddery?’ said Wind Jackal, laughing out loud.

  ‘It’s … it’s a woodtroll expression,’ said the timber-master, reddening. ‘How we describe standing on an unstable branch …’

  Wind Jackal clapped his hands round the woodtroll’s shoulder. ‘You’ll soon find your sky-legs,’ he assured him. ‘And once you do, who knows? - Maybe you m
ight even prefer the Galerider to those well-trodden paths of yours.’

  Chopley smiled queasily. ‘I doubt it, Captain. Though I must admit, this view is better than any I’ve ever seen - even from the tallest ironwood pine.’

  Wind Jackal’s hands darted over the flight-levers, though his gaze remained on the timber-master.

  ‘What exactly should we be looking for?’ he asked, as the woodtroll scanned the vast carpet of treetops spread out below.

  Chopley shook his head. ‘Difficult to say, Captain,’ he said, still wobbly on his feet and clutching the balustrade. ‘Certainly it’s impossible to spot a bloodoak from above. Its glade is dark and concealed beneath the forest canopy. No, what we must look out for are the signs …’

  ‘Signs?’ asked Wind Jackal.

  ‘Small, open glades. Perhaps a ring of them - although sometimes, they may lie scattered in groups of two or three,’ said the woodtroll. ‘They’re where the tarry vine ensnares its prey. The tree itself will lie some way off, hidden. To find the bloodoak, Captain, we’ll have to hunt on foot. Only down there,’ Chopley pointed a stubby finger down into the depths of the forest, ‘can we hope to track it down.’

  ‘More signs?’ Wind Jackal smiled grimly.

  The woodtroll nodded. ‘Small but important signs,’ he replied. ‘Vital signs!’ he added. ‘After all, our very lives will depend on them.’ His face grew more serious. ‘The first is a quality of the air. In our woodlore, it is known as deathstillness - a deep oppressive silence that surrounds the tree, devoid of birdsong or creature cry of any kind. Then there is the smell: the underscent. Thick, sickly, rancid, it is. Once smelled, never forgotten.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Wind Jackal, his hands running expertly over the bone-handled flight-levers.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you can,’ said the timber-master with a gruff chuckle. ‘But you will, when the time comes.’ He stumbled down the steps and joined his fellow woodtrolls huddled on the aft-deck.

  ‘Master Spillins,’ called Wind Jackal, ‘you heard the timber-master, I trust? Look out for clusters of glades!’

  ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n,’ Spillins’s voice floated back. ‘That’s just what I’m doing.’

  Despite his best efforts, however, Spillins saw nothing that first day as the Galerider swept on over the towering Timber Stands and left the paths of the woodtrolls far behind. Yet later, when Wind Jackal brought the great sky pirate ship down to anchor above the treetops for the night, no one felt disappointed. Surely the next day would reveal signs of the bloodoak.

  It didn’t. Nor did the following day; nor the day after that. And as they sailed on - with Wind Jackal using the sun, his compass and the tranche of charts to navigate the sky - the woodtroll band became ever more nervous and jittery.

  Throughout the day, the band of woodtrolls remained up on deck, clustered together as far from the balustrades and the terrifying view as possible. Apart from Chopley Polestick, only one other woodtroll gained his sky-legs. Plucky and young, Tuntum Snatchwood would leave the others and join the timber-master at the balustrade, where the pair of them ventured a brave look over the side - though never for long. At night, when the rest of the crew retired to their cabins, the woodtrolls trooped down to the three large hammocks slung the width of the cargo-hold and climbed in, six to a hammock. And all the while - day and night - the group gave off the same curious buzzing, humming sound like the noise of smoke-drowsy woodbees.

  ‘Funny little fellows. What is all that moaning and groaning about?’ Thaw Daggerslash smiled, nodding towards the cluster of woodtrolls.

  Hubble grunted from the nest of sailcloth he’d constructed beneath the aft-deck gunwales.

  ‘Some kind of chanting, I reckon,’ said Steg. ‘To ward off evil spirits, or whatever … They’re a superstitious lot. I mean, look at the way they’re always rubbing those wooden amulets of theirs.’

  ‘Well, I hope it works,’ said Daggerslash.

  ‘Me too,’ said Duggin. ‘Though I’m beginning to think we’ll never find a blasted bloodoak, no matter how much they chant.’

  ‘Have a heart,’ said Steg. ‘The woodtrolls are frightened, away from their paths.’

  ‘Yes, and I know just how they feel,’ said Tem, his voice quavering and his face ashen grey. ‘Just the thought of them bloodoaks …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Tem,’ laughed Thaw Daggerslash. ‘We’ll only use you as tarry-vine bait as a last resort!’ Chuckling at his own joke, Thaw sauntered off towards the aft-cabins.

  Steg glared after the sky pirate a moment before turning to his young friend. ‘Just a stupid joke, Tem,’ he said. ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself sick about it, there’s a good lad.’

  Tem shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘When the time comes,’ said Steg, ‘if it ever comes, and we’re in that bloodoak glade, I’ll be right beside you. I promise you, Tem, lad, old Steg Jambles won’t let anything bad happen to his fore-decker.’

  Down below deck, Maris and Quint were staring into the galley’s store cupboards. With the Galerider’s quartermaster, Filbus Queep, gone, and Tem Barkwater hopelessly distracted, the pair of them had offered not only to prepare the meals, but also to manage the supplies. They were about to go into the second week of the bloodoak voyage and, with eighteen extra mouths to feed, the store cupboards were looking increasingly bare.

  Quint sliced the last of the stale black bread while Maris diluted the already watery stew. She laid the ladle down.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ she said. ‘When the stew’s finished, all we’ll have left are woodonions and glade oats.’

  ‘Delicious,’ said Quint with a laugh. ‘Onion porridge, my favourite!’

  But Maris was having none of it. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ she complained. ‘How can we be expected to feed the crew if the store cupboards are empty, Quint? And your father won’t stop the search for us to forage …’

  ‘I’ve never seen our captain happier!’ came a voice, and the pair of them turned, to see Thaw Daggerslash standing there, his hands behind his back. ‘He’s like a new sky pirate up there at the helm.’ Thaw flashed them both one of his dazzling smiles. ‘Give the woodtrolls watered-down stew,’ he said. ‘What do you say we have roast snowbird for supper!’

  He brought his arms from behind his back and held up six plump snowbirds.

  ‘Oh, Captain Daggerslash!’ gasped Maris, flushing pink with pleasure. ‘But of course we must share them with everyone!’

  ‘Not only a beautiful cook, but a fair and honest quartermaster,’ smiled Thaw, handing the birds to Maris. Is there no end to your accomplishments?’

  Now blushing furiously, Maris turned away and began busily preparing the snowbirds for the roasting tray

  ‘But how … ?’ began Quint, who could see no telltale crossbow bolts in the birds.

  ‘Simple,’ said Thaw triumphantly ‘I simply coated a log-bait with tar and the nibblick seeds I feed my rat-bird with, and the greedy things swooped down and stuck fast!’

  ‘You have a ratbird?’ said Quint, intrigued. ‘Indeed,’ said Thaw. ‘From my sky barge - only thing left to remember the Mireraider by. Now, Maris, remember, plenty of woodonion sauce with those snowbirds!’

  The following morning, the sun hadn’t even risen above the horizon when Quint climbed from his hammock and made his way up to the helm. He emerged at the top of the stairs only to find that the sky ship had slipped anchor and was already in flight, with Spillins up in his caternest scanning the forest, Wind Jackal at the wheel, steering by the dim grey morning light and the hooded figure of the Stone Pilot supporting herself on crutches, tending the flight-rock once more.

  ‘The Stone Pilot’s up!’ Quint exclaimed as he joined his father at the helm.

  ‘Wouldn’t stay in the infirmary cabin a moment longer. That roast snowbird certainly seems to have done her the power of good,’ said Wind Jackal, adjusting the flight-levers as the wind caught the sails and the Galerider soared high up into the sky. All round
them, the air filled with a mist of droplets as the dew-drenched sailcloth quivered and flexed. ‘In fact, last night’s supper has revived spirits all round,’ Wind Jackal added. ‘Even our woodtroll friends seem happier this morning.’

  Quint looked down to the aft-deck where the woodtrolls clustered in groups of six, busily sharpening their axes and chattering excitedly. Just then, the great orange sun split the distant horizon to the east, casting shafts of light out across the sky. At the same moment, Spillins cried out from the top of the mast.

  ‘Captain! Captain! There! A ring of glades!’

  Quint stared over the balustrade. Sure enough, far below them was a telltale ring of glades circling a dark, dense mass of forest. The woodtrolls laid down their axes and danced in a circle, their arms round each other’s shoulders. The droning hum was gone. In its place - echoing around the sky ship - was a loud, triumphant whooping that brought the rest of the crew onto the deck to see for themselves what was going on.

  A matter of minutes later, the great sky pirate ship was hovering just above the forest canopy, and Steg, Thaw and Duggin - at three points along its length -were lowering grappling-hooks. Ropes were let down and the crew and the band of woodtrolls slid quickly down them.

  On the forest floor, in the dense undergrowth on the fringe of the sunlit glades, the bloodoak-felling party organized itself into three groups, as the lone figure of the Stone Pilot remained at her post aboard the Galerider. Wind Jackal, Quint and Maris went with the Polestick clan; Steg Jambles, a white-faced Tem and Duggin the gnokgoblin joined the Snatchwoods, while Thaw Daggerslash, Hubble and a frowning Spillins fell in with the six axes of the Snetterbarks. Chopley Polestick took command, raising his carved blackwood staff to gain the attention of the three gangs.

  ‘Somewhere in there’ - he jabbed the staff in the direction of the dense, dark forest on the other side of the sunny glades - ‘lurks a bloodoak. Remember - look, listen and smell for the signs. Deathstillness. Under-scent. And out there in the glades, the tarry vine.…’