The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Ah, it was stupid, Stormy, I know, but I had to see you, I had to.’ He grinned and shook his head at his own folly. ‘Now, do you have any friends here that might help?’

  Stormy immediately thought of Maud but it wouldn’t be fair to involve her in this. And the littles would be too scared of losing their jobs. He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Your flying watsit!’ the grubbin cried. ‘That’s our answer! It will take us to safety. If you drop me in the village – well not literally drop . . .’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll be safe. I’ve got friends there.’

  Of course Mungo Muddiman didn’t know that he didn’t have a spitfyre. He didn’t want to explain; he never wanted the generous little man to know the mistake he’d made.

  What if thirteen were a grubbin catcher too? What if it was in her blood and she couldn’t help it?

  Mungo must have read his mind.

  ‘Your spitfyre wouldn’t be one of them, would it? You don’t think that, d’you?’ His expression was so hopeful and expectant.

  ‘Well, no, I don’t think so,’ he answered truthfully. ‘She couldn’t hate grubbins; she just isn’t that sort of animal.’

  And she isn’t a member of the Star Squad, he reminded himself. And she’s never been given any yellow powder.

  ‘Well, there we are, then, lad.’

  ‘Yes, yes, there we are,’ said Stormy.

  Just supposing he could get thirteen to fly, how would he direct her to Stollen? He knew almost nothing about flying.

  ‘Let’s do it!’ Mungo said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Dawn.’

  His heart missed a beat.

  He nodded. ‘Dawn,’ he repeated. He sighed. He had a whole day and night to get through first. ‘Dawn it is.’

  Stormy made the grubbin promise to stay in his room while he went off to his classes. ‘Don’t open the door to anyone!’ he warned him.

  ‘Not on your life, I won’t,’ the grubbin said. ‘I’m going to read up all your books here. Which ones has the nicest pictures in it?’

  When the sky was just beginning to lighten, Stormy and the grubbin crept silently from his room.

  ‘You all right, Stormy?’ Mungo Muddiman was dressed in Stormy’s dressing gown and had covered his bald patch with a towel, turban style, so if anyone caught a glimpse of him they’d think he was a student who’d just been taking a very early shower. ‘You seems a bit shaky.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Stormy muttered.

  The school buildings were still and silent but every board creaked beneath their feet and even the carpets and curtains seemed to swish loudly at them as they went by. Stormy’s insides were churning and his heart beating horribly fast and hard. He was so busy looking round to check they hadn’t been seen that he twice bumped into a wall.

  ‘Don’t fret so,’ Mungo said. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  At last they reached the terrace. The sky was colourless and the air was damp and cold. The mountain peaks were hidden by low, grey cloud. Nothing moved. Everything was still and quiet, and Stormy was just beginning to think they were safe when, nearing Sparkit’s den, he realised his mistake.

  The enormous silver flying horse had jolted awake as they came near and was now noisily sniffing the air. He swung his head from side to side, stretching his neck out of the cave, snorting and blowing. He turned towards them and breathed in deeply.

  They both froze.

  ‘I think Sparkit’s caught your scent, Mungo!’ Stormy spluttered. ‘He’s one of the chasers! Back, back!’

  Sparkit was wide-awake now. A low whinny erupted from deep inside his belly and bubbled out of his open mouth, along with tiny sparks which flared and fell sparkling to the ground. He began to paw the ground with his right hoof and to strain against his clanking chain.

  ‘He’ll start roaring any minute! Hurry!’ Stormy hissed.

  They backed off until they were behind the curve of the wall and out of view.

  ‘Phew,’ Mungo said, wiping his brow. ‘That is one scary beast!’

  They stood there for a few moments waiting for Sparkit to quieten down.

  ‘Is your flying thing as huge as that?’ Mungo asked him, wide-eyed. ‘I never saw such an enormous monster!’

  ‘Er, not quite so big or so fierce,’ Stormy said. ‘Come on, this way.’

  They scurried back into the main building, along numerous corridors, until they at last reached the south staircase.

  ‘But Stormy, where are we going?’ Mungo whispered loudly. ‘It’ll be light soon.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Stormy said. ‘We’ve got to avoid those Star Squad spitfyres. This way we’ll come out at the South point and the first cave on the West is mine. Thirteen.’

  The sun’s rays were beginning to burn off the mist and low cloud and now light appeared over the mountaintops on the east. Everything was starting to come to life. Birds wheeled above their heads and cried forlornly.

  ‘Is she very fine, your flying horse?’ the grubbin asked as they bustled down the stairs. ‘I so hope you have a fine one.’

  Stormy wasn’t sure which was worse, trying not to lie to Mungo while still keeping him believing in his flying abilities and sky-rider skills, or trying to fool himself that he knew what he was doing.

  ‘She’s the best,’ he said quietly. And he meant it.

  As they approached cave thirteen they heard the jangle of the spitfyre’s chain rattling.

  Mungo covered his ears. ‘I ’ate that sound. I ’ate it!’ he said huskily and grabbed at his leg where for so many years he had worn a metal cuff. ‘Oh, it ’urts me, it does.’

  ‘She’s usually really quiet,’ Stormy said. ‘Hold on, I need to go and get a lantern.’ He ran to the stores and came back quickly with a light.

  They went in cautiously; still thirteen was rattling her chain.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’ Stormy whispered soothingly. Don’t let it be the grubbin, he begged her silently. Not that.

  She was straining at her chain, all fidgety as if she had been stung by a bee or bitten by a rat. Her neck was arched tensely. She peered at him with a worried expression, as if he wasn’t who she thought he was going to be. Stormy didn’t dare go any closer.

  ‘She’s small – but then I appreciate small!’ Mungo said peering round Stormy. ‘She’s a beauty! Real pretty!’

  ‘Er, yes, er, just hold on there, Mungo.’ Stormy forced himself back to the present. ‘Stay back – she’s very excited and I don’t know why.’

  Surely, surely she wasn’t a grubbin chaser?

  ‘It’s only me, thirteen, your friend. Only me,’ he said. ‘It’s Stormy. What’s the matter?’

  She settled a little, stopped dancing about and puffed out a little cloud of acrid smoke.

  ‘There, there, it’s all right. It’s fine. We’re going out, we’re going out flying!’

  Her ears twitched backwards and forwards as she listened to him, her head cocked on one side, and she fixed her eyes on his, watching him closely. But every now and then, she would dart a look towards the entrance, past Mungo, as if she thought someone else was there.

  Keeping a wary eye on her, Stormy reached up for the bridle, reins and goggles that hung on the wall.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘What’s the matter, young man?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ Stormy said, staring at the spotless riding gear in his hands. He had been meaning to clean the tackle, but hadn’t . . . Someone else had, though; it was smooth, supple and shining. He stared at the spitfyre and back at the bridle and reins. Who? His fingers were trembling as he untangled the leather straps.

  ‘Is everything all right, Stormy?’ the grubbin whispered. ‘Can’t we hurry?’

  ‘Fine. It’s fine.’ Stormy said.

  Someone had been in here.

  Someone had frightened thirteen.

  She nuzzled his ear with her soft mouth. ‘Clever thing!’ He stroked her neck. ‘It’s all right now. We’re going out. We’re going t
o take Mungo back home. Hold the reins, would you, Mungo?’

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Stormy lifted the reins over her head and somehow a strap fell over her forehead and another slipped neatly over her nose. While Mungo held her, he buckled the straps below her chin.

  ‘Phew!’ Stormy said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Hot in here.’ Stormy wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘See, she likes you,’ he added. ‘She’s not a grubbin chaser. I’ll unlock her and we can go.’

  He pushed gently alongside the spitfyre, knelt down and slid the key into the leg iron.

  ‘Nasty thing, that is!’ Mungo said and spat.

  The spitfyre was standing very, very still now, as if she knew – and he was sure she did – that she was going to be set loose. The key turned smoothly, the lock had been well oiled – another surprise – and the cuff fell to the rock floor with a clatter.

  Immediately she lifted her unshackled leg and shook it like a cat shaking a wet paw. She snorted and tossed her head and pushed towards the cave entrance.

  ‘Hey, hang on!’ the grubbin cried. ‘Hold on!’

  The spitfyre was pulling the grubbin with her.

  For an awful instant Stormy saw her flying off and the grubbin being carried away, dangling from the reins, but she stopped suddenly outside, breathing fast, thrashing her tail against her haunches like an angry lion.

  Steam and smoke billowed from her nostrils. Sparks flew.

  ‘Stormy, she seems really furious . . .’ Mungo said.

  And then they saw why.

  It was Al.

  31

  Remorse

  Or it was the ghost of Al? He was so thin and gaunt and his skin so pale that he might easily have been a spirit. The spitfyre spat a shower of golden sparks on his hair, setting it sizzling and smoking.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked, brushing absent-mindedly at his hair. He barked out a dry laugh.

  ‘Al, please don’t try and stop us,’ Stormy said. ‘Please don’t –’

  Before he could utter another word the spitfyre made a dive at Al and sent him staggering backwards, limping and tottering towards the edge of the terrace.

  ‘Thirteen, stop!’ Stormy cried.

  Thirteen’s eyes were blazing. Narrow streams of dense black smoke curled from her nostrils like ribbon.

  When Al had got his balance again he turned to them and laughed. ‘Look! Look at her!’ he cried. ‘She hasn’t forgiven me! She wants me dead. She hates me . . . I cleaned her gear, did you see? While she slept, I crept in and oiled the lock. She’d have killed me if she’d seen me, she could have!’

  Stormy waited for Al to go on.

  ‘She was angry, she wanted to bite me. Wanted my other leg, didn’t you!’ He pointed to a large burn, the size of a saucer, in his jacket. ‘That’s what she did when she woke and saw me. Bad girl!’ He laughed and then quite suddenly burst out weeping, as if a cork had burst from his throat and his tears could now overflow. ‘It is all my fault, Stormy . . . My life is torture. Everything. Otto sending up delicious stuff and knowing I won’t eat it. I can’t eat it! It would kill me; I know it would. Mayra was his sister! His dear little sister, and it was my fault she died. I was too proud and vain. I wanted the Spin. I wanted to show them how brilliant I was. Since then . . . everything has slipped, slipped away.’

  Suddenly thirteen lunged at him. Al hopped and hobbled out of the way as a ball of flame spun towards him, rolling along the ground like an orange Catherine wheel.

  ‘See what you’ve done, Stormy!’ Al roared. ‘You’ve made her fit and strong. I tried to stop you before and then I saw I couldn’t. But she’ll kill me!’

  ‘Why didn’t you just look after her properly?’ Stormy cried. ‘Why didn’t you? If you’d treated her better she wouldn’t have –’

  Al was teetering near the edge of the cliff.

  ‘She’ll kill me. I –’

  But his words were lost as the spitfyre puffed out her chest, spread her wings and went for Al again. There was nothing anyone could do to stop her. She was poised like a snake about to strike, and dashed at him. With a scream Al turned and ran – not towards the safety of the buildings, but towards the edge of the terrace. He hesitated briefly, looked over his shoulder at the spitfyre as she came towards him, and then flung his arms out wide and jumped into the emptiness.

  Stormy was struck dumb.

  Thirteen screeched to a halt, wings held out as brakes, hooves grinding horribly against the stones. A dreadful tremor rippled over her; she shook and shuddered, then rocked on her four legs, settling her balance.

  Silence.

  Stormy and the grubbin raced to the edge, crouched and stared down.

  ‘By the blazes!’ Mungo cried. ‘He’s there!’

  Al had landed on a ledge about four metres below. He was absolutely still, lying flat on his back. His eyes were open.

  ‘Al? Al? Can you hear me? Are you all right?’ Stormy yelled. ‘I’m coming down!’

  Al groaned.

  ‘He’s moving!’ Mungo said. ‘He’s alive!’

  But before Stormy could start the descent, Al started to roll; over and over he went, slowly, as if an invisible force was driving him down the hill.

  ‘What are you doing, Al?’ cried Stormy. ‘Mind the edge!’

  But Al didn’t stop. He fell right over the rim of the rocky ledge and thumped onto the grassy hillock below. Then he went tumbling and spinning down that and rolled away into the nothingness and disappeared.

  ‘Al! Oh dear, oh my, oh goodness,’ Mungo muttered.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Stormy said. ‘We could try and –’

  ‘No, don’t worry, lad,’ Mungo said. ‘You’ve got other things to do. You’ve other things on your mind.’

  The spitfyre was still trembling; her wings quivering like giant leaves shivering on a stem; her breathing was fast and hard. She stood with her head low as dark, tarry smoke streamed from her nostrils and curled over the rim of the cliff. Stormy stroked her. ‘There, there,’ he murmured. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about Al,’ Mungo said, brightly, ‘he’ll mend. This is his spitfyre, is it? Don’t you have your own one, then?’

  ‘Oh, Mungo, it’s a long story.’

  ‘And we haven’t time, have we? Are you still up for our ride, lad? Only the morning’s on its way and I think I hear peoples . . .’

  ‘I like Al, you know, despite everything; I know he’s good underneath,’ Stormy said forlornly.

  The grubbin patted his shoulder. ‘Yes, yes, I knew you was a good lad the first time I sets eyes on you,’ he said. ‘You was how I wanted my little girl to be, kind and honest and helpful. Now, dear boy, are you going to take me off here or what?’

  ‘Sorry. I keep getting distracted. The thing is . . .’ Stormy said, gently guiding the shivering spitfyre over to a mounting block. ‘The thing is, Mungo, I’ve never actually flown her before, and I need her name to fly her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Al oiled her lock and gave me the key and . . . I think he really wants me to be her rider, but with him gone, I’ll never find out what her name is. I hoped he’d remember it.’

  ‘Well, my bet is you can make anything fly, even a mole, name or no name. Born sky-rider you are. I saw the marks you’ve been getting for your school work.’ Mungo went round and flapped his arms in the spitfyre’s face. ‘Come on, you, we’re going flying!’

  The spitfyre gawped at him in amazement.

  ‘She knows what I mean. Come on, let’s get on.’

  ‘I really don’t think . . .’ But Stormy climbed gingerly onto her back, settling with his knees tucked in behind where her wings emerged, hoping against hope that something magical would happen and he’d instantly become a master sky-rider.

  Sitting on her back was extraordinary; to have so much of his body touching hers, and to feel the heat radiate from her, as if he we
re astride a stove. He felt he should have asked permission to get on to her – it seemed almost rude just to sit on her as if she were a chair – but she didn’t object, and what else were you supposed to do?

  The grubbin scrambled up behind him and clasped his arms around his middle. ‘Off we go!’

  The spitfyre smelt strongly of earthy herbs, and just-struck matches. Stormy could feel her muscles and tendons and sinews writhing beneath her skin as she flexed her wings and tested her legs. Her expanding ribcage rose and fell; her beating heart throbbed like a drum.

  ‘Isn’t she gorgeous!’ Stormy whispered. ‘I think I might pop with joy.’

  Mungo chuckled. ‘She is beautiful,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Even more beautiful if she’d get a move on . . . Make her go, can’t you?’

  How? Stormy whispered in her ear, ‘Come on, thirteen, please. Starlight? Please, let’s go. We must fly. We must!’

  She swished her tail and her wings twitched, and Stormy’s hopes soared, and then fell as she stayed rock still.

  ‘Try kicking her.’

  ‘I can’t kick her! She isn’t an ordinary horse! I don’t want to hurt her. Come on, thirteen, please. Up, up, UP!’

  Her ears flicked backwards and forwards and she tensed the muscles in her back and limbs so her body tightened and prepared, like a spring, beneath them. She was like a runner in a race, on her marks, but she wouldn’t go without the whistle blowing. And Stormy had no whistle.

  ‘Up!’ Stormy urged again. ‘Fly!’

  She unfurled her wings, and her body stretched and shifted again, but didn’t move.

  ‘What’s in a blooming name?’ Mungo said. ‘Never knew they were that important. Ah, never mind, young Stormy. It doesn’t matter.’ He slipped off the spitfyre’s back and patted her side. ‘She’s brilliant. Beautiful. She really is.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stormy said. He got off and stared at the ground. ‘I’ve let you down . . .’