The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  When he finally stopped, she blinked several times, then opened her eyes wide. He was startled to find himself so close to such large dark blue eyes staring intently back at him. Intelligent eyes. Then she nudged him with her nose and lifted her head up high, proud of herself again and wanting him to know it.

  A great bubble of hope rose up inside him. Maybe he was a spitfyre whisperer, like they said. And maybe he’d surprise everyone with what he could do, even if he had been just a skivvy from the kitchen. And maybe he could train her and ride her. Maybe not having her name wouldn’t matter. She trusted him; that counted for so much.

  She unfurled her wings and shook them out. The holes in the delicate membranes would tear if she flew; she wasn’t ready yet for that, but one day . . .

  Suddenly she trembled violently, as if fearfully cold, and stamped her hooves sharply towards the entrance. Alarmed, Stormy jumped out of the way.

  ‘Stormy!’

  The spitfyre quivered and shifted back against the wall, puffing loudly, blowing sparks around the cave.

  It was Al. He didn’t come into the stable; his long narrow shadow lay on the wall as he stood at the entrance.

  ‘What is it?’ Stormy yelled.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Al called back. ‘That’s my spitfyre!’

  ‘You don’t deserve her!’ Stormy marched out and almost collided with Al, who was standing there as stiff as a dead tree. ‘You don’t deserve her!’ he yelled again.

  He was horrified when Al sank down onto his knees and started to moan.

  ‘I’m sorry, I –’

  He stopped. The chain around Al’s neck swung free from his shirt and Stormy’s eyes fastened on the key as it slipped along its length. He needed that key.

  ‘I know,’ Al whimpered, ‘I don’t deserve her.’ He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘How is she?’ he whispered. ‘How is she now?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t ever look at her again,’ Al said with a groan.

  ‘She’s recovering,’ said Stormy, ‘eating well. She could fly again, Al, if only . . .’

  Al shook his head. ‘If she sees me – if I see her – her eyes will show it. She will fix me with those eyes and I will never bear the guilt! I’ve done everything wrong. Everything!’

  ‘But Al –’

  ‘I shouldn’t have done the Spin . . . I went after my own selfish desires . . . Then I blamed her and I’ve punished her all these years . . . But it was my fault.’

  ‘Oh, Al . . . Listen, you can help her now. Give me the key to her chain,’ Stormy said. ‘I’m not afraid of her. She trusts me.’

  ‘How can she ever trust again?’

  ‘She does. I’m sure she does.’

  Al wiped his eyes and looked up at Stormy doubtfully. ‘She would be a fool to trust anyone ever again.’ He tore off the key and threw it at Stormy’s feet. ‘Take it. I’m done with all this!’ He staggered to his feet and limped away.

  29

  Night Visitor

  Stormy lay awake for hours thinking about Al and the spitfyre. He fingered the key to the leg iron that was now safe on a chain around his neck, longing to use it and to set the spitfyre free.

  It was wet outside and the wind whistled in the chimney like a frightened animal.

  What was that?

  He sat up. The room was in total darkness, the curtains drawn tight over the windows. Once or twice he had thought he’d heard slates shifting overhead and put it down to the wind; now he wasn’t so sure. There was a new, strange noise outside his window that made no sense, because he was miles from the ground. There it was again; something was scratching and scrabbling at his window!

  Stormy slipped out of bed and flung back the curtains. The rain beat against the windowpane. He couldn’t resist opening the window and checking . . . The wind rushed in, bringing with it a voice.

  ‘Norphan!’ And a body threw itself through the window and dropped onto the floor with a damp thud.

  Stormy recognised him immediately. The grubbin convict! The moleman rolled over and knelt up, grabbing Stormy round the knees.

  ‘My little norphan!’ he said, a big smile showing all his broken and yellowing teeth. ‘At last!’ He flung his arms round him.

  Stormy was appalled. The grubbin was filthy, his long hair a tangle of mud and twigs and leaves. He smelled of the underground, of caves and dankness, and wet herbs . . . What was he doing in here, in his room, in the Academy?

  He tried to move but the grubbin’s arms were locked round him.

  ‘Oh, you’re wonderin’ what I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the grubbin said, grinning up at him. ‘You’re wonderin’ how I found you out, eh?’

  Stormy nodded. ‘Shh! Please, quiet. Could you, would you, let go?’

  He was straining to hear if there were any creaks on the boards outside his door. How would he explain this? A grubbin here?

  The grubbin released him and sat back on his heels. ‘It’s a long story, lad, but I’ll tell it. Got a drink or a bite of food? I’m hungry as a wolf.’

  Stormy nodded. Motioning him to stay back, he quickly unlocked his bedroom door. The corridor outside was empty. He tiptoed to the night larder and came back with some food.

  ‘Cheese, grapes and a flask of hot tea,’ Stormy told him, putting it out on the desk.

  ‘Cheese, grapes and hot tea! Remember me, eh, Stormy?’ the grubbin said as he crammed the food into his mouth. ‘By the blazes, but I was hungry then! Years in prison’s made me like that.’

  Stormy glanced towards the corridor. Was that the click of a door opening somewhere? His heartbeat quickened.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the grubbin said, ‘no one saw me come. I’m a good climber, I am.’

  ‘Why did you come back?’ Stormy asked. ‘It’s so dangerous here! How did you get in?’

  ‘Oh, a grubbin can climb, you know; like monkeys over ground we are; over the rooftops, no problem; down the rough wall, no problem. And like moles underground, ha ha! And why have I come? Why, I’ve come to see that you’d got what you wanted,’ the grubbin said. ‘To see how you’d become a fine student at the Academy and got all them things you wished to have.’

  Stormy went on staring at him with amazement and horror; what did his welfare matter in the slightest to the grubbin?

  ‘You’ve sure as sure have got a nice place here,’ the grubbin said, looking around and licking his lips. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘I had some good fortune,’ Stormy told him. He didn’t want to explain to him about his mysterious benefactor; all he could think of was getting the grubbin out before anyone saw him.

  ‘Got lucky, did you? How was that, then?’ The grubbin was looking at him with his head on one side expectantly, his eyes glittering, a dimple forming in his cheek as he smiled.

  ‘I . . . I have a benefactor and he or she – I know nothing about them – they paid for me to come here.’

  ‘Did they, then?’ His look suggested he knew something that Stormy didn’t. Stormy didn’t like it. It made him feel uneasy. ‘Well, well.’ The grubbin paused to stuff more grapes into his mouth and drink some more tea. ‘Sorry, manners not needed in a dungeon,’ he said, wiping the dribble and crumbs off his chin.

  Stormy reddened and tried to smile as if he wasn’t repulsed.

  The grubbin shuffled closer to the heating pipes with a shiver. ‘Cold outside. Very cold.’

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ Stormy asked, folding his arms.

  ‘Oh, it’s not you going to help me,’ the grubbin said. ‘It’s me that’s helping you – this time.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Why, remember how you helped me? Remember how you stole me food and got me the pincers to cut my chains?’

  Stormy nodded.

  ‘Well, I never forgot that. I never forgot it even when they put me back in prison and locked me back down in the dungeons. Thought about that kindness a lot. When I broke out again I left my leg iron for y
ou, a sort of memento, like. I wasn’t planning on wearing them again! I wanted you to see them, Stormy. I hoped you’d see them, know I was out.’

  ‘I did,’ Stormy muttered. He didn’t like the way this conversation was going. There was unease growing like some awful fungus creeping through his insides and it was making him weak and giddy.

  ‘Well, you see, Stormy, I never forgot and I wanted to reward you. I went and dug out buckets of gold dust. Rubies the size of my fist! So then I could do it; reward you, and I did. So it’s me! There!’ He hit Stormy on the knee. ‘I’m your benefactor!’

  Stormy shook his head furiously. ‘You can’t be!’

  ‘Why not?’ The grubbin looked disappointed. ‘Why not? We can make money out of the dirt, we can.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’ Stormy’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I shall tell you everything,’ the grubbin said, settling down comfortably on the floor with his arms around one of the big heating pipes. ‘I’m not a thief, Stormy. I’m not a bad man. And you reminded me of how I wished my own child might have been, in your kind ways, you did.’

  ‘This is too much! It’s all too much!’ Stormy said. ‘I can’t take it all in.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ the grubbin agreed, laying his cheek against the warm pipe and yawning. ‘Listen, young man, why don’t we just settle down for the night and I’ll go on with my story in the morning?’

  The thought of spending the night with the grubbin in his room was horrible and Stormy couldn’t disguise a shiver of disgust at the thought, but he had no choice.

  ‘OK. It’s late. That’s a good idea. You could have a bath if you like,’ Stormy suggested, and to his delight the grubbin agreed. ‘But do it quietly, won’t you?’ he begged as the moleman turned on the taps and the water rumbled out. What would his fellow students think to him having a bath at this time of night?

  While the grubbin scrubbed himself and splashed around merrily, Stormy sat resting his head in his hands, staring sightlessly at the wall. He would have to give the grubbin his bed. He would have to hide the grubbin in his room. He would have to be kind to the grubbin. But worst of all he knew what the grubbin had told him was true. It had to be. Why would he make it up? And who else but a grubbin who’d been locked away for years wouldn’t know you needed a spitfyre to be a sky-rider?

  The Director had no secret plans for Stormy.

  Araminta did not admire him.

  The simple truth was that he was an idiot.

  30

  Secrets

  In the morning Stormy pinned a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the bedroom door.

  He left the grubbin asleep and a note not to open the door to anyone, while he went to see to his spitfyre.

  She greeted him with a blast of soft, warm smoky air and rested her head gently on top of his. ‘I can’t stay,’ he told her, rubbing her neck. ‘You’ll never believe what’s happened. Who’s come . . . Oh, my . . . It’s dreadful!’ He could hardly think straight, the grubbin might wake up and go out or . . . He worked the key in the rusty lock, but it wouldn’t turn. ‘It hasn’t been opened for ages,’ he said. ‘I need oil.’ He bathed her sore leg as best he could. ‘I can’t stay too long. Oh, why did that grubbin have to come and spoil everything?’

  He gave her some of her medicine, finished his duties quickly and said goodbye to her. All along the terrace he kicked an empty food bucket noisily. Everything was ruined!

  By the time he returned to the main building, the other students were awake and several were in his corridor.

  The grubbin was awake too.

  In the light of the morning, and after a bath and a shave, he looked much better. The bald centre of his head shone like a boiled egg and his hair was now pale grey not black, but no amount of scrubbing would remove the grey moley sheen to his skin. Stormy winced, remembering what a poor reception he’d given him last night, and determined to be kinder. He had brought some breakfast up for him and after the little man had eaten it, savouring every mouthful and praising the pastry and the fruit and the newly baked bread, he began his story.

  ‘My name is Mungo Muddiman. I have a brother called Sylvester and once I had a wife and a daughter . . .’ He paused and wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Dead,’ he added, nodding at Stormy. ‘Long time ago. As you see, I’m a grubbin; but not pure grubbin, not both parents. My pa was a human bean. It was my ma, bless her heart, that had the grubbin blood and she passed it on to me and to Sylvester; only I got the most of it. Very pointed ears, very short height. Big brains, though!’ he chuckled. ‘My brother, Sylvester, he was so ashamed of his grubbin blood, he went and cut off his points!’ He felt his own ears tenderly. ‘Right off! He wanted to scratch out his grubbin heritage entirely, have not a jot of it left, so he left home and went adventuring. He changed his name as well as his looks and we lost track of him. Didn’t see him for a long time, didn’t know where he was, even. Then Ma and Pa died and I searched him out. Was I surprised to find he was now passing himself off as a human bean and not a grubbin? I was astounded, I can tell you! I had a lot of money then, earned honest, too. I’d been deep in the hills mining and got lucky. Lucky? I should say so, diamonds as big as an albatross egg. Nuggets of gold like loaves of bread, hee hee. All safely stashed away. When Sylvester found out I was so rich he set me up, set me up to steal it off me. My own brother!’ He shook his head and banged his fist down. ‘Hard to believe, eh?’

  ‘What did he do?’ Stormy urged him on. ‘How did he set you up?’

  ‘Got a filthy lawyer to say I’d stolen the money off my dead folk and had me locked away in the dungeons. He didn’t get it all, though; I’d more hidden in my secret, secret places. We grubbins always have. I never saw my wife and babe again. He told me they was dead. I was alone. I didn’t care about being locked up when they was dead; they was all I lived for anyways.’

  Stormy smiled encouragingly.

  ‘But when I realised what he was doing . . .’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  Mungo took a deep breath.

  ‘The dungeons are here beneath the castle, are they not, young lad? And I was prisoner there for many years, was I not? And you, no doubt, have seen the convicts here, and did you not wonder, young lad, why they was all grubbins?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Is it only grubbins that are thieves and liars and cheats in this world?’

  Stormy shook his head.

  ‘No, it is not. And why do they get moved on out? Because there’s no space for them down there! Why? Why? Because they brings in more grubbins and fills it up again. The dungeons are full to bursting of grubbins! Bursting at the seams with us blighters! Packed to the brim! Overflowing!’

  Stormy took a big breath. ‘You are saying they are locked up in the dungeons just because they’re grubbins?’ He hesitated, remembering Lizzie had said something similar. He realised too that he had put a certain memory to the back of his head so that he hadn’t had to deal with it. He said, ‘One night, I heard a scream. I saw three spitfyres flying . . . one had something . . .’ He let his voice trail off.

  Mungo nodded. ‘The Director has trained them bat things to find and capture grubbins.’ He lifted his shirt and showed Stormy some terrible white scars, running across his chest. The skin had been stitched untidily; it was puckered and pulled tight. ‘Got snatched myself. They bring them here and lock them up. If my brother has his way there won’t be a grubbin left this side of the moon . . .’

  ‘But hang on!’ Stormy stopped him. ‘You were talking about your brother Sylvester first, then the Academy, the Director . . . I don’t . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ The grubbin nodded furiously. He stared him squarely in the eye. ‘His name is Sylvester Muddiman. The Director is my brother.’

  Stormy reeled backwards and fell heavily on the bed. He lay sprawling there for a moment staring sightlessly at the ceiling; so this was what being hit by a cannonball felt like.

  The Director a grubbin!

  Mungo’s
brother.

  ‘The Director steals the grubbins’ money then locks them up and lets them fester down in the dungeons. He treats them worse than animals. And I was the one he wanted most to keep hidden,’ Mungo said, ‘because I was the awful reminder, the one that could expose his lie. Least he didn’t bump me off; he could have . . .’

  Stormy groaned. ‘I wanted to be here so badly, so . . .’ His voice trailed off. ‘I wanted to be a sky-rider and I ignored all the clues, ignored every hint that something bad was going on. Now I can’t stay here! How can I stay and be part of such an evil plan . . . And does that mean the Director knows what’s going on with the spitfyres? Surely he doesn’t? Surely he must!’ Stormy clutched at his hair. ‘I’m going crazy! It’s probably all the Director’s orders.’

  ‘Don’t get het up, lad,’ the grubbin said. ‘I understand, I really do. You are a norphan an’ all and you want better things. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘But this isn’t better things!’ Stormy cried. ‘What’ll we do?’ he added. ‘How can I stay here with such horrible people?’

  ‘Course you can stay, lad. You int bad! What we’ll do is wait for night-time and then I’ll be off again. I can get out of most places, you know, and this castle is a doddle compared to them dungeons. Now you know my story; why I wanted you to have a chance in life as I have never had. And I knew you’d not be after hunting grubbins, you weren’t the sort. I had the idea maybe, that you’d help stop it . . . And perhaps I hoped you might find out what happened to my wife and daughter, how they died. Poor dears, poor dears.’

  Stormy’s jaw dropped open. ‘Me? Stop the Star Squad? It’s like saying I could stop an avalanche. A rock slide. A typhoon.’

  ‘It was just an idea . . .’

  ‘But I’ll try and find out about your family. I will do that, I promise. Oh, Mungo, you’re in danger here. We need to get you somewhere safe.’

  ‘I can go the way I came, norphan. It only took a day of crawling and creeping; up the wall, over the roof . . .’

  ‘Too risky.’ Stormy shivered. It suddenly dawned on him just how dangerous Mungo’s trip to see him had been. Never mind someone seeing him and knowing Stormy’s benefactor was a grubbin, Mungo was risking his life coming back here. If he were caught he’d be tossed straight back in the dungeons. ‘You really shouldn’t have risked coming,’ he said.