Stormchaser

by Paul Stewart

  ‘And ropes?’ called Maugin. ‘We’ll need ropes to raise them.’

  Twig poked around under the mattress of folded sails. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Coiled up as a base underneath, all the ropes we could possibly want. And … here! A huge chest, full of tools. We’ll be able to get started right away’ He paused. ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ Maugin called back, but Twig could hear pain in her soft voice.

  Twig set to work eagerly. Hour after hour, he toiled, carrying out the instructions of the Stone Pilot, who although she would have denied it was suffering constant pain from the angry gash on her leg. But the Windcutter really was a wreck. Every spar seemed rotten, every plank ready to crumble. Although he did the best he could, patching here, trimming there, the task seemed hopeless. When the sun sank down below the horizon, he looked round, dismayed by how little he had actually achieved.

  ‘I’m never going to get this finished,’ he complained.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Maugin reassured him in her soft, shy voice. ‘Find the other half of the flight-rock and we’ll make her fly’

  Twig shook his head. ‘But the flight-rock is buoyant,’ he said. ‘Won’t it simply have floated away?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the Stone Pilot replied. ‘As you know, cold rock rises, hot rock sinks. Assuming it landed somewhere in the warm Mire mud, it should still be there.’

  Although the Stone Pilot had been badly injured when descending from the Stormchaser, her leg had, thankfully, not been broken. With regular cleansings in the phrax-dust-purified water, the swelling went down, the redness faded and the angry wound slowly began to heal. They had been there ten days when she first climbed shakily to her feet.

  ‘That’s amazing, Maugin!’ said Twig, and took her by the arm. ‘See if you can put some weight on it.’ The Stone Pilot stepped tentatively forwards onto her right leg. It wobbled. She winced but persevered. ‘Excellent!’ Twig enthused. ‘It’ll soon be as good as new.’

  ‘It’ll never be that,’ said Maugin, smiling bravely. ‘But I daresay it’ll serve me well for a few more years. Now how’s supper coming along?’ She looked up and sniffed the air.

  ‘Supper!’ Twig exclaimed. ‘I forgot all about it,’ and he dashed outside to seize the metal griddle from the fire. ‘Just how I like them!’ he called back.

  ‘You mean, burnt,’ said Maugin, smiling as she peered through the hole in the hull.

  Twig looked up and grinned. The Stone Pilot’s shyness was slowly disappearing. ‘So you won’t be wanting any?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ came the reply. ‘What have we got today, anyway? No, don’t tell me. Oozefish!’

  ‘Hammelhorn steaks, actually’ said Twig. ‘With fresh crusty bread and a nice side salad.’ Maugin’s mouth dropped open. ‘Only kidding,’ said Twig as he handed her a platter with her daily ration of three oozefish, a slab of hard tack and a handful of dried woodsap segments arranged upon it. ‘The perfect diet,’ he said.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Maugin with a smile. She eased herself down onto a rock and began nibbling at a corner of the rock-hard biscuit.

  Far away in the distance, the massive orange sun sank down below the horizon and the sky glowed pink and green. Twig and Maugin watched the lights of Sanctaphrax appearing, one by one. Behind their heads, the stars were already sparkling and as they sat eating in silence the night spread across the sky like an opening canopy.

  ‘I love the evenings’ said Twig as he rose to light the lantern. ‘It’s so peaceful out here, with nothing and no-one for miles around and only open sky above.’

  Maugin shuddered. ‘It gives me the creeps,’ she said.

  Twig did not reply. He knew that, despite her years as a sky pirate, being a termagant trog Maugin still yearned for her life underground. It was like Twig’s own desire to sail the skies in the blood.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some good news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found the other half of the flight-rock.’

  ‘You did?’ said Maugin excitedly. ‘Where?’

  Twig swallowed hard. He had found it in the purified pool where the Professor of Light was buried. The previous evening, he had gone there in despair to talk to the old professor. And there it was, bobbing in the clear warm water, just beneath the surface.

  ‘Oh, not far from here,’ said Twig. ‘Do you think you can join it together?’

  ‘I’ve mended worse,’ said Maugin.

  Twig looked across at her and smiled. ‘We’ve been lucky so far, haven’t we?’

  ‘Luckier than I ever dared to hope,’ Maugin admitted.

  At that moment, far up in the twinkling depths of the night, a shooting star blazed across the sky with a soft hiss. Twig lay back and watched it. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ he sighed.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Maugin. ‘And make a wish.’

  Twig turned and looked at her. ‘I already have.’

  •C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-O N E•

  THE FLIGHT TO UNDERTOWN

  For the next two days, Twig and Maugin worked harder than ever. Having completed the nauseating task of removing Screed’s collection of rotting toes, Twig cleared the mud away from the bottom of the ship. Next, he bound the cracked mast, completed the repairs to the hull-rigging and, with wood taken from the redundant cabins, began sealing the largest holes in the hull. Maugin bound the two halves of the flight-rock together in an intricate latticework of ropes, bound in wet mire mud and baked hard into place in the sun. Then the two of them began the arduous business of dragging the ropes and sails from the forehold to the decks.

  Although made of woodspider-silk the sails were cumbersome to manoeuvre and half rotted with age. Every gust of wind set them fluttering and flapping, and small tears appeared that had to be patched.

  ‘Hold on tight!’ Twig ordered below, as the studsail he was holding billowed out. He was halfway up the mast at the time, and struggling to attach it to a sliding-cleat. ‘Do you really think these will get us to Undertown?’

  ‘Have faith,’ Maugin called up, ‘and a light touch on the sail levers. The flight-rock will do the rest.’

  Twig smiled. There was something in Maugin’s calm manner that reassured him. He was beginning to depend on this quiet, serious girl more and more. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Only the staysail and the jib to rig up, and we’re done.’

  As the setting sun signalled the end of yet another day, Twig checked the knots for a final time, balanced his way back along the creaking bowsprit and jumped down onto the deck.

  ‘There,’ he announced. ‘Finished.’ He surveyed his handiwork nervously. ‘Shall we go for a trial run?’

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ said the Stone Pilot. ‘We should leave it until morning.’

  ‘You know best,’ said Twig, somewhat relieved. ‘Let’s go and have a tot or two of woodgrog to celebrate. We’ve earned it.’

  The following day, Twig was woken before the sun had risen. ‘Get up,’ Maugin was saying as she shook him by the shoulders.

  Twig opened his eyes and looked round groggily His head was thumping. Too much woodgrog, he realized miserably.

  ‘We must leave now, before the wind changes,’ said Maugin. ‘I’m going down below deck to see to the flight-rock. You take the helm. I’ll call up to you when I’m ready’ she said.

  Twig washed, dressed, drank enough of the phraxdust-purified water to quench his thirst and clear his head, and made his way to the helm. There by the wheel freshly aligned and greased Twig stared at the two long rows of bone-handled levers. ‘Stern-weight, prow-weight, starboard hull-weights, small, medium and large,’ he muttered, ticking them off in his head. ‘Then, mizzensail, foresail, topsail,’ he said, turning his attention to the second row of levers. ‘Skysail … No, studsail. Or is it the staysail…? Blast!’

  ‘Ready to launch!’ came Maugin’s calm voice, echoing up the staircase from the bowels of the ship. ‘Raise the mizzensail.’

 
; ‘Aye-aye’ Twig called back, his own voice sounding shrill and more nervous than he’d have liked.

  With his heart in his mouth, he leaned forwards, seized the mizzensail lever and pulled. The sail billowed and filled with air. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a judder and a creak, the Windcutter lifted slightly, and almost imperceptibly began to right itself. The rotten timbers groaned horribly.

  ‘Down the port hull-weights,’ Twig muttered. ‘Up the large starboard hull-weight a tad and … Whoa!’ he cried as the ship listed sharply to port. The sound of tearing sailcloth filled his ears.

  ‘Careful,’ called the Stone Pilot steadily.

  Twig tried to remain cool. He raised the port hull-weights a fraction, and compensated by lowering the stern-weight. The sky ship stabilized and, with a long and rasping squelch, it rose arthritically up from the sucking mud.

  ‘YES!’ Twig cried out. The wish he had made as the shooting star flew across the sky had come true. The Windcutter was skyborne. They were on their way back to Undertown.

  ‘Easy as she goes!’ the Stone Pilot called.

  Twig nodded as he turned the wheel slowly to the left. ‘Stay calm,’ he told himself. ‘Keep a steady course and concentrate.’

  The sky ship keeled to port. Twig’s head spun. There was so much to remember. With the wind coming from the south, the starboard hull-weights needed to be raised higher than the port hull-weights but not too high, or else the sky ship would go into a spin. His task was made no easier by the lack of the neben-hull-weights and the constant nerve-racking creaking of the old rotten hull.

  ‘You’re doing fine!’ the Stone Pilot called up encouragingly.

  Am I? Twig wondered. He hoped so. That last time he had tried to sail a sky ship, it had ended in disaster and that was with his father there to take over when things got too difficult for him. Now there was no-one to come to his aid. Twig was on his own.

  ‘You can do it,’ he urged himself. ‘You must do it!’

  At that moment, he glanced up to see a dark cloud speeding towards them. As the Windcutter rose higher, the cloud descended. They were on collision course.

  ‘What is it?’ Twig gasped. Trembling with unease, he spun the helm to the left. The cloud, too, shifted direction. ‘And what’s going to happen when it strikes?’ he shuddered.

  Closer and closer, it came. Twig became aware of a curious noise a squawking, squeaking, screeching noise that grew louder, and louder still. All at once, he saw the cloud for what it really was. A flock of birds; all flashing wings and lashing tails. The ratbirds were returning.

  As one, the flock wheeled round the sky ship once, twice, three times, darting between the sails in figures of eight, before swooping down out of view beneath the hull. Through the many cracks they flew, and into the base-hold of the ship where they took up residence. The familiar sound of twittering and scratching filtered back up to the deck.

  ‘Ratbirds!’ Twig whispered, his face beaming with delight. It was a good sign. Even if it was an old wives’ tale about ratbirds abandoning a doomed sky ship, Twig was as glad to see them arrive as Tern Barkwater had been dismayed when they left. And, as he raised the remaining sails and the sky ship lurched forwards, his heart soared. Like his father, his father before him, and his father before him, Twig Captain Twig was in charge of his own sky pirate ship.

  Far below him and farther all the time the shadow of the sky ship skudded across the glistening white mud of the Mire. Now and then Twig would lean forwards and adjust one or two of the hanging weights. It was coming more easily now. He was beginning, as Cloud Wolf had put it, to develop the touch.

  On and on they sailed, running before the wind. Ahead, the horizon melted away in a bank of swirling mist and the distant floating city of Sanctaphrax vanished. Below, the shadow abruptly disappeared too, as clouds real clouds this time swept across the sun. All round him, the air was filled with the creaking and whistling of a gale-force wind as it tugged and strained at the sky ship. Every now and then, a plank would splinter and fall away. The Windcutter was slowly falling to bits, but still she flew on.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Twig whispered in a vain attempt to still his thumping heart. He fiddled feverishly with the levers. ‘Lower the sails a little. Raise the hanging weights. Gently. Gently’

  ‘We should be there before darkness falls,’ came a voice at his shoulder.

  Twig turned. It was Maugin. ‘Shouldn’t you be tending to the flight-rock?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘There’s nothing to do for the time being,’ Maugin assured him. ‘Not till we come in to land. I’ve been checking round the ship. We’ll have to take it slowly’

  ‘And the stormphrax?’ said Twig. ‘The lantern needs to be burning at a sort of twilight brightness,’ he reminded her.

  ‘The stormphrax is fine,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’ She paused. ‘Except…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I have the horrible feeling the mast-bindings we secured are giving way. We must sail with the wind until we absolutely have to tack against it to make Undertown. Otherwise the mast will break. It means we’ll be taken over the Edge. We must keep our nerve until the last minute.’

  Twig tensed. His palms were wet and his mouth was dry. Just the thought of sailing over the Edge into the uncharted sky beyond, where even the sky pirates never dared to venture, filled him with dread. Yet, if the Stone Pilot was right about the mast, they had no choice. They would have to sail with the wind until they were level with Undertown, and then turn, dash back towards land and pray.

  ‘Is the Mire still below us?’ he said.

  Maugin went to check. ‘Yes,’ she called back from the balustrade. ‘But the Edge is approaching. Keep the lights of Sanctaphrax in view.’

  ‘I know!’ Twig snapped as he raised the starboard hull-weights. The boat lurched and listed; the mast creaked ominously.

  ‘Go with the wind,’ said Maugin. ‘Let her have her head.’

  Twig nodded grimly. His hands gripped the helm, white knuckled; he drew blood biting into his lower lip. The sky ship listed even further. If he wasn’t careful it would roll over completely.

  ‘Easy!’ Maugin called, as the ship dipped savagely. Twig lowered the stern- and prow-weights. The sky ship steadied momentarily. Twig sighed but his relief was short-lived. ‘Twig,’ she said, her voice as calm and steady as ever. ‘We’ve gone over the Edge.’

  An icy chill coursed through his veins. The wind had taken them towards the mysterious nether-regions beyond the Edge where dragons and monsters were said to roam, where few had visited and none had returned. To a place known only for the weather it conjured up Great Storms, of course, but also mad howling whirlwinds that warped the mind and filled sleeping heads with visions; thick, suffocating fogs that stole the senses; driving rain, blinding snow, sulphurous dust storms that coated everything in a fine layer of particles now green, now grey, now red.

  ‘Got to keep sight of the lights of Sanctaphrax,’ he murmured. ‘Wait till they’re level with us. Keep your nerve, Twig. Keep your nerve!’

  Tearing herself away from the mesmerizing mists which writhed and swirled beneath her, Maugin ran back to the helm. ‘I’ll take the wheel,’ she said. ‘You concentrate on the levers.’

  The wind gathered force. The tattered sails screamed as it tore through the fresh rents in the sailcloth. The groaning timbers of the hull grew shrill with splintering.

  Twig’s hands danced over the levers. Lifting here, lowering there, steadying the mast jib. And all the while, the lights of Sanctaphrax drew nearer on the starboard bow, glinting tantalizingly from solid ground.

  Beneath the crumbling hull of the Windcutter was the inky blackness of the void. Panic rose in Twig’s throat. He wanted to pull the ship about, straight into the teeth of the gale that gripped them, and make a dash for the grey cliff face of the Edge. If they crashed over land, at least they’d stand a chance of surviving. But here, beyond the Edge, they co
uld fall for ever.

  His hand jerked out for the starboard hull-weight lever. He felt an iron grip. Maugin’s slender hand held him at the wrist. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered, mouth close to his ear. ‘Have faith. Wait for the lights to come level. Wait, Twig. Wait.’

  Twig’s panic receded. But he was drenched with sweat, and shivering violently with cold, with anticipation. All at once, a sickening crash split the air behind them and the aft-spar flew past, down into the darkness, dragging its sail with it.

  ‘It’s all right’ Twig shouted, as he steadied the rudder-wheel to bring the bucking sky ship back under control. ‘I’ve got her.’

  Maugin surveyed the horizon. ‘Now!’ she shouted.

  Twig’s hand immediately shot out for the starboard hull-weight lever for a second time. This time Maugin did not stop him. He pulled down with all his might. As the heavy boom swung about, the Windcutter jarred as if hit by a giant hammer, and tacked into a blast of icy wind.

  The mast screeched under the strain, its sails ripping apart and flying past him like phantoms. Then, with an ear-splitting splintering, the entire mighty upright began to buckle.

  ‘Don’t break,’ Twig implored. ‘Not now!’

  With an agonizing screech, the mast folded backwards. The teeth of the gale bit deep into its rotten centre and … CRASH! It split in two and the top half slammed past the bridge.

  Twig threw himself on the Stone Pilot as the great column swished past their heads like Screed’s evil scythe.

  ‘We’re done for!’ he screamed as the sails fell limp and the Windcutter began to drop through the air. Abruptly, the lights of Sanctaphrax were snuffed out. ‘We’re lost!’

  ‘No!’ Maugin was screaming back. ‘The flight-rock. The flight-rock will save us. Cool the flight-rock and we float. Twig, we float!’