by Dan Davis
The basket inched downward.
Archer pulled harder, gripping the branch with his legs. He closed his eyes against the rain and pulled and heaved. The sodden rope slipped in his hands.
Lightning struck. Right next to them, a twisted old oak exploded in another blinding flash and ear-splitting crack. The sound knocked the wind from him. Twigs spattered through the leaves, whacking into him.
The balloon was still there above him but another lightning strike would destroy it and kill them all.
If only the wind would drop, or reverse, as it had done the last few times he had willed it so.
The rope went slack.
The wind was gone.
He blinked up into the rain and watched as the basket descended toward him, towards the tree, falling, falling.
Oh, he thought. I should do something.
It crashed into the branches above him and snapped them, crashing through without slowing. Archer grabbed the branch and hugged it, ducking his head against it, expecting to be crushed to death.
The basket smashed right by him, bringing branches and leaves whipping down onto his back. It carried on down into the tree, snapping branches. The others screaming and clinging on to the sides as it fell. The cloth balloon snagged into the branches above, the strings snapping and pinging as the weight of the basket yanked them.
The basket jerked to a stop in the branches below.
He peered over the edge. The basket hung at a dangerous tilt, suspended by the remaining strings to the balloon sack above, caught amongst the canopy. The branches swayed and shook in the wind. The basket trembled, too. The balloon fluttered and jerked, with ripping sounds.
The others had to get out of the balloon before the whole thing was ripped apart and they fell.
Archer sat up on his branch and tried to untie the rope around his chest. His fingers were shaking from the cold and from the fear and he could not undo the knots.
It did not matter. The rope joining him to the basket hung below. Crawling and shimmying down the branch, he edged toward the trunk. From there picked his way down through the branches to the basket. It was hard work in the wind and with everything soaked. Lightning struck again, blinding him, deafening him.
He got to the level of the basket, clutching onto the slippery bark.
Writer and Weaver had climbed out onto the nearest branch that was large enough to hold them. Both were soaked and shivering. They were calling to Keeper to join them.
‘I can’t leave him,’ Keeper shouted, sobbing. ‘You go.’
Lightning crashed and the thunder drowned out anything further.
Archer climbed down with them. Keeper was still in the tilted basket with Burp cowered in the corner.
‘What’s happening?’ he cried at Writer.
‘Burp can’t climb out,’ Writer shouted back. ‘And Keeper won’t leave him.’
Another string pinged and the basket dropped another foot and jerked to a stop again, tilting even more.
Keeper fell forward and grabbed hold of the edge of the basket, his feet kicking out over thin air. Burp slid outwards, hissing, his rear legs scrabbling on the basket and his useless, bound wings trying and failing to find purchase.
Weaver ran along the branch and reached out for Keeper’s flailing arm.
‘Hold still, you idiot,’ she shouted at him and grabbed his wrist with both hands and with a cry of effort she pulled him up to the top of the branch with her. They both lay there, exhausted.
‘Burp!’ Keeper called, his hoarse cry turning into a cough.
Archer ran along the branch, danced round Writer and stepped quickly out along the wide branch to where Weaver had hold of Keeper. Archer jumped over them and slipped on the wet branch on the other side.
He managed to grab the branch and cling on. There was no time to be safe, so he slid off the top of the branch to hang underneath it, to try to reach out to Burp.
Burp’s claws scrabbled against the wicker basket. He hissed and snapped his jaws trying and failing to bite onto the edge. The basket swayed more and more as the wind blew harder, buffeting them, making Burp slide towards the rim of the basket. Lightning flashed right by the tree, cracking the air and shaking the earth. The little dragon’s body was right at the edge now.
He was going to fall.
Burp hissed, his tail whipping back and forth. Archer was so close that he could almost touch Burp’s spiny back.
The dragon was going to fall and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was just too far away.
As Burp slid out into the air, Archer swung himself toward the dragon and he got his legs round the dragon’s body and his arms round under his shoulders and he squeezed tight, hooking his ankles together.
Archer fell with Burp, wrapping his arms and legs tight round the dragon. Burp stuck his claws into Archer’s shoulders and back. Archer screamed in pain.
They fell.
They smacked off a branch, Burp taking most of the impact but still it knocked the wind from him and he almost let go. But he held on. Burp was hissing.
Archer hoped that the rope around his chest would stop them before they hit the ground.
He expected and feared that the sudden jerk would hurt. But when it happened it felt like he had been kicked in the chest by a horse.
The rope yanked him to a dead stop, squeezed his ribs together forcing the air out of his lungs and the shock of it made him throw his arms out wide.
He dropped Burp.
The dragon slipped from his grasp, the claws ripping through the skin Archer’s back and shoulders.
Archer’s head hit something, hard. The world turned bright, bright as lightning and thunder and rushing filled his ears.
Everything went dark.
A Long Way Home
Rain on his face.
The crackling of fire.
The acrid stink of smoke.
‘What’s happening?’ he said. Actually, he tried to say that but what he really said was, ‘Nrrgh.’
‘Told you he wasn’t dead,’ Keeper’s voice said.
‘Fine, I owe you another penny,’ said Weaver.
Archer was lying on his back looking up.
It was night.
He was soaked through, cold and lying on wet earth. Firelight flickered nearby but for some reason he could not see properly. Half the world was blocked out. Yet he saw through his blurred vision that he was under the great beech tree. His head throbbed.
Writer’s face appeared above him. Her hair was wet and plastered over her face, glowing orange from the reflected light from the fire.
‘How are you feeling, Archer?’ she asked him.
‘Burp?’ he said, his voice rasping and his throat dry. His tongue felt thick. The pain in his head was coming from his right eye and temple.
‘Burp’s fine,’ Keeper said, appearing at Archer’s side. ‘You saved his life, it was amazing,’ Keeper threw himself onto Archer’s body and squeezed him.
‘Ouch!’ Archer cried. ‘My bruises!
Keeper let go of him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, Archer, I’m just so grateful. You jumped and caught him right out of the air.’ Keeper’s face was in shadow but red eyes seemed to glow.
Burp hissed right next to Archer’s ear. The dragon’s face was right above his, yellow eyes shining. Burp’s tongue shot out and he licked Archer’s ear. The tongue was dry, hot, and rough. But it did not feel too unpleasant.
‘You’re welcome, Burp,’ Archer said. He reached up and patted Keeper’s arm but his chest was so sore that he could not speak for a moment. ‘My face,’ he asked Writer, reaching up to feel his eye.
Writer grabbed his wrist. ‘Do not touch it,’ she said. ‘You must have bashed your head against the trunk. Your head has been bleeding an awful lot and your eye is all swollen up.’ She hesitated. ‘It looks quite bad.’
‘You’re probably fine,’ Weaver said. ‘It might still be in your head.’
‘My eye?
’ Archer felt sick. ‘What do you mean, still in my head? Is it still there?’
‘Course it is,’ Keeper said.
‘I don’t know,’ Writer said. ‘It is too dark to see properly. I will have a good look in the morning.’ She shivered and rubbed her bare arms.
‘Help me sit up,’ Archer said.
Writer and Keeper helped him. His chest hurt so much that just breathing made him wince.
Through his one good eye, he could see the small campfire next to him. It was smoking and sputtering from the wet wood but the warmth felt wonderful on his skin.
Rain was spattering above him and he looked up to see that some long, wide tatters of cloth from the balloon sloped up into the branches and darkness above. The great beech trunk was right next to them. He lent on a thick tree root that was covered in moss and glanced over his shoulder, wincing.
The basket was on the ground behind him, tipped over.
He had Weaver and Writer on one side. Burp and Keeper sat snuggled on the other.
‘What happened?’ he asked them, his voice wheezing.
‘You just jumped right through the air like you were flying and then you grabbed Burp as he fell,’ Keeper said, grinning. ‘And Weaver did the same thing to me.’ Keeper reached over Archer and punched Weaver on the arm.
Weaver sighed dramatically. ‘I just dragged you on to the tree, Keeper,’ she said. ‘And if you hit me again I’ll knock your block off.’
Burp hissed at her but she stared back at the dragon, her lips pressed together, and Burp lowered his head.
‘That’s right, I grabbed him but then I dropped Burp,’ Archer said, suddenly remembering. ‘I’m so sorry Burp. Were you hurt very badly? How are your wings?’
Burp hissed, his yellow eyes glinting.
‘He was fine,’ said Keeper. ‘He was very grateful.’
‘We climbed down the tree and found Burp sitting on the ground,’ Writer said to Archer. ‘You were dangling from the rope half upside down this far from the ground.’ She held out her hand about three feet up. ‘If the rope had been any longer you would have both smashed into the ground. If it were much shorter then Burp would have had a very nasty tumble.’
‘Lucky,’ said Weaver, shaking her head. ‘Just mad luck.’
‘We just had time cut you down from the rope when the basket crashed down through the branches,’ Writer said. ‘The cloth and ropes slowed it down long enough to drag you a couple of feet out of the way before is hit the ground right there.’ She nodded at it. ‘It made a wonderful shelter from the storm, what with so much of the balloon still sort of attached. It makes a good roof. So we dragged you back here under it. Keeper found enough cabbages for Burp to start a fire from the broken branches that Weaver collected.’
‘The storm is over?’ Archer could hear thunder in the distance. Of course the storm had stopped. The wind had died down. ‘How long was I asleep?’
‘It finally passed, just a little while ago,’ Writer said. ‘It cannot be long until sunrise. I wish we could dry off properly and warm up.’ She was shivering. They all were.
Archer shifted himself and then reached over his shoulder. Something was missing.
‘My bow?’ Archer asked, looking around.
‘Oh, yes,’ Writer said. She hesitated. ‘I am afraid that the string snapped. The wooden sick part was not damaged, as far as my untrained eye can tell. It was underneath you on the floor. It’s just propped in the basket now,’ Writer said.
‘I carry a couple of spare strings,’ Archer said, relieved. ‘Everything is all right, then.’
‘You don’t look alright, mate,’ Weaver said, peering at him.
‘No,’ Archer said. His head hurt, and his chest hurt, and he was cold to the bone. ‘I might just have another lay down,’ he said.
‘Here, lay on this,’ Weaver said and laid a wet length of cloth behind him. It was just about as filthy and wet as the earth itself ye he was too exhausted to argue and he lay back on the wet scrap of cloth. He hissed at the sudden pain around his chest. The rope must have really yanked him hard.
‘Good idea, Weaver,’ Writer said her teeth chattering and leaning over him. ‘We should all have a sleep, if we can. When it gets light we will have to start walking home.’
‘What about wolves?’ asked Keeper. ‘Shouldn’t someone stay awake in case they come to eat us?’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Weaver.
‘I’m sorry,’ Archer muttered, gingerly feeling the great swollen lump all round his right eye. Writer slapped his hand away. ‘I really am so sorry,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Keeper said. ‘What have you done now?’
‘I got you all of you into this situation,’ he said, his teeth juddering. ‘All because I said that if we built a balloon we’d just float down. That we’d go home. Only, now we’re stuck here in the forest, cold and hungry and hurt and even further from home than we were. And it’s all because of yet another stupid plan that I had. Typical Archer, that is. Always jumping in deep without thinking it through properly.’
‘Don’t say that, Archer,’ said Keeper, grinning. ‘It was a brilliant plan. All your plans have been brilliant.’
‘Keeper’s right,’ Weaver said. ‘He’s an idiot but he’s right.’ Her voice shook from the cold. ‘Thanks to your stupid ideas we got out of the Tower and back down to the sweet ground once more.’ Plunging her other hand into the leaf mulch and mud between her knees, she pulled out a fistful of the stinking, mouldy earth and held it in front of his face. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since I felt the earth between my fingers?’
‘Too long, probably,’ Keeper said. ‘If now you suddenly love mud.’
‘Shut your face,’ Weaver said, her green eyes almost lighting up. ‘Or I’ll shut it for you.’
‘How can you argue at a time like this?’ Writer said, and her bright blue eyes seemed to be shining, too. ‘We should just go to sleep and then tomorrow we will go home.’
‘I’m so cold,’ Archer said.
‘I’ll build the fire up,’ Keeper said. ‘There’s not much wood left and what there is all green. It will be all smoke and little heat but it’ll be better than nothing. And we should all huddle up to Burp.’
‘We need as much rest as we can have before dawn,’ said Writer. ‘We must have strength enough to walk home. We must be many miles away.’
Archer nodded.
Burp lay down next to Archer and stretched out. The warm scales pressed up against him all down one side and Writer or Weaver curled up against him on the other side. He stopped shivering almost immediately. In fact, it felt wonderful.
Archer was soon asleep but he was aware of one last clear thought before he passed out.
We’re a long way from home.
Then, in the night, the wolf came.
In A Bad Way
A wolf. It stood right over him, right over all of them, looking down at him in the moonlight.
The others all slept on beside him. The air was perfectly still. He could feel Burp’s slow, steady breathing beside him and hear Keeper’s quiet snoring.
It was cold and damp and the fire had long since burned out.
He squinted up with his one good eye open. The wolf was utterly still and it stared steadily with its yellow eyes. Water dripped down the fur on its muzzle and a big fat droplet fell from the wolf’s nose and splashed on Archer’s forehead.
The wolf’s breath misted into Archer’s face. It was hot and foul but somehow comforting, somehow right. The wolf did not move, did not blink or make a noise. It just looked down at him. Another bead of water ran down its nose and breathing onto Archer’s face.
This cannot be happening, Archer thought. Wolves are very wary of people and avoid us whenever they can. They would never approach your camp, even when the campfire has died down to nothing because Wolves can smell people from miles away.
No, a wolf would not come this close to the four of us and surely it would never come near to Burp, he thought, feel
ing the dragon quietly hissing away rhythmically beside him. A wolf might not know exactly what a dragon was but wolves were clever and wary and would not take risks.
Relieved to find out that he was in fact dreaming, he closed his eye and went back to seep.
He woke. It was early dawn. The sun was not yet up but there was enough grey-purple light to see the woodland around him. Water dripped onto his face from the balloon cloth and branches above, trickled down in a steady drip, drip, drip.
Pain lanced into his eye and chest as he sat up, wincing, and wiped his wet face. His whole body was painful, from his eye and head to his chest and blistered palms. It hurt so much to move that tears formed.
Everyone else slept either side of him.
Writer and Weaver huddled under a scrap of wet balloon cloth on one side. On the other Keeper was curled up in a tight ball into Burp’s pale underbelly and Burp was curled up around Keeper, one chained up wing over the sleeping boy. Water dripped down on all of them.
Archer watched the drips pinging onto Burp’s scales, sizzling slightly and turning to steam. His scales were therefore perfectly dry. Burp’s throat glowed with that deep orange inner light that showed through the pale scales of his underside.
However, Archer was not a dragon and he was wet and cold and shivering and he had to move to get warm. He peeled off his corner of the sodden blanket as quietly as he could so not to disturb the others.
He almost cried out as he got up but as soon as he stretched his legs and started picking his way past the ashes of the fire he felt good for moving. His chest was the worst of the pain, worse than his eye and it hurt even to breath. He stepped quietly to the great beech trunk and leaned carefully against it.
Peeling his filthy, wet tunic from his shoulder, he peered down at his skin. The sight of it made him feel sick. There was a mass of bruises all round his chest, where the rope had jerked him to a stop.
He leant forward and felt round him body carefully, pushing gingerly with his fingers. The bruising extended under his arms and right round his back. Well, he thought, not much I can do about it. His mum always told him that bruising means you are healing. And if you’re healing then you’re not dead. Besides, Archer had always healed from cuts and bruises very quickly, more quickly than the rest of his family. Apart from his father’s father, who once grew back two chopped-off fingers, so they said.
