by Lexi Rees
Dad lifts the parcel from my outstretched palm and carefully tucks it into his backpack. A low moaning starts up instantly.
‘Oh no, not again.’ I put my hands up to cover my ears.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Can’t you hear that noise?’
Dad and Aria shake their heads.
‘That’s weird. It’s like someone crying. It started as soon as Dad picked up the parcel.’
‘Curious,’ Dad says. He looks at me, his head tilted and his brow furrowed. I get the distinct feeling that he knows something. Dad retrieves the bundle from his backpack and passes it back to me.
‘Take it, but don’t …’ he says.
‘… don’t open it,’ I chant. ‘We know Dad. Don’t open the parcel. Never, ever open the parcel. We get it.’
The instant I take the parcel from him, the moaning stops. I hold it up to my ear. It gives off a faint whooshing sound, like you get from a seashell. I feel myself drifting into a trance. I drag myself back to reality.
‘That’s weird,’ I say. ‘Listen to this.’ I hold the parcel out to Aria.
She lifts it to her ear, screwing up her face in concentration, then shrugs. ‘Nothing.’
‘I can hear the sea in it,’ I say. ‘I knew this parcel was special. It’s something to do with the Sea-Tamers.’ Under my breath, I add, ‘And Morgan.’
‘I think you should carry it back to the boat for us.’ Dad laughs, but his eyes are cold.
I shove the parcel into my pocket and push the unanswered questions out of my head.
We step out of the cave. A gang of bikers surrounds us, the engines of their mud-splattered off-road bikes growling, their headlights blazing in the twilight.
‘Bounty hunters. Run!’ I shout, sprinting off into the trees. How did they find us?
‘How did they get here?’ Aria pants. ‘Is there another route we don’t know about?’
‘There must be,’ I say. ‘They couldn’t have brought those bikes up the path we came along. Maybe there’s a tunnel through the mountain?’
‘Earth-Wanderers,’ Dad mutters. ‘Always digging.’
Dad trips on a tree root and falls. I turn back.
A motorbike spins, churning up clouds of dust and cutting us off.
‘Go!’ Dad yells. ‘Leave me.’
‘I’m taking him hostage,’ the leader calls, getting off his bike and striding towards Dad. ‘Get the kids,’ he shouts to the other bikers.
Out of the oasis, we charge down the steep mountain path.
The bikes crash through the undergrowth and onto the narrow path right behind us. There’s no escape. We can’t out-run them.
A huge gust of wind springs up from nowhere and blasts the mountainside.
Caught in the unexpected gust of wind, one of the bikes loses control, skids on the slippery gravel and crashes into the others, sending them all flying like dominoes over the cliff edge. We watch in shocked horror as the bikes bounce down the mountainside, shattering into pieces.
‘We need to help Dad,’ I say, grabbing Aria’s hand and sprinting back towards the pool.
Muscles bulging, Dad faces the thug, the bike held high above his head. ‘How did you find us?’ he demands.
‘People here are easily “persuaded” to talk,’ the biker sneers.
‘Well, take this as a warning.’ Dad flings the bike to the side. The gang leader shoots a look at Dad, his mouth twisting, but he backs away. ‘This isn’t over, Ragnar,’ he spits, picking up his bike. He leaps on, kick starts it and zooms away.
Dad dusts himself off. ‘I knew this island was trouble,’ he grumbles as the biker disappears in a cloud of dirt and fumes.
He looks at us. ‘How did you lose the others?’
‘The wind came up, and it blew them over the cliff,’ Aria mumbles.
‘Lucky,’ Dad says. I’m sure I see him wink at Aria.
Night brings only a thin sliver of moon so it’s too dark to start the descent now. We set up camp by the pool. Aria grabs her bow and arrow and heads into the woods, tossing me the fire starter kit on the way past.
I scout around the area, gathering enough dried branches and twigs to build a campfire. I clear a patch on the ground and make a ring of stones. In the middle, I place a few shreds of the silver birch bark. Leaning back so I don’t get burnt, I strike the flint stick as hard and as fast as I can. Sparks rain down onto the bark. Wispy black smoke coils into the air as the bark catches alight, giving off a faint aroma of natural tar. Gradually, I add twigs and other bits of kindling, all the time fanning the embryonic flames until it builds up into a decent fire. Once it’s burning brightly, I sit back and rub my hands in front of the crackling flames.
From the trees around the oasis, strange noises fill the night sky. Thankfully, our fire will keep any creatures away.
Aria reappears with two rabbits for supper. It feels like a feast.
As we settle down for the night, I pull Dad aside.
‘That gust of wind when we escaped from the bikers was weird,’ I say. ‘Unnatural. Did Aria make it? Does she have powers too? Is she one of the other blood-magic children that you mentioned?’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he nods. ‘She does. Or she will when she is twelve.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘When Aria was born, the clan elders were worried that we would have responsibility for two of the blood-magic children. Some of them thought it was too risky. Others thought that the way we lived, always moving and hiding, was still safe. They argued amongst each other for a long time. Eventually they agreed that Aria could stay with us. We had to promise not to tell either of you the truth about the other until you had both gained your full powers.’
‘I remember when you told me there was one blood-magic child from each clan, you were going to say something else. You very nearly told me then, didn’t you?’
‘Almost, but I was scared the elders might take you away if they found out I had broken my promise.’
‘It’s different if I guess though, isn’t it? They can’t take me away if I work it out myself.’
Dad nods.
‘If there’s only one child from each clan, she can’t be a Sea-Tamer. I guess she’s an Air-Rider since she made that wind.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Does she know?’
‘Yes, but I made her swear to keep it secret, even from you. I’m sorry. She had to.’
‘How did she make the wind though?’ I ask, confused. ‘She’s still only ten?’
‘Being around you seems to have triggered her magic early, so I started some basic training with her.’
‘Please could you teach me too?’
‘No, Finn. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not a Sea-Tamer. But you’re right. It is time you started training. We need to find you a teacher. We should have done it already, but I wanted Isolda to help you choose the right person. We’ll work it out though, I promise. Now go to sleep.’
My dreams that night are full of magic.
SEVEN
Storm
The fire has dwindled to embers, but I get it going again and prepare three mugs of strong, sweet, black tea while we tidy up the camp.
Before we leave, I pour some water over the fire and stamp it out.
It’s much easier going down than it was climbing up and the journey is quicker. Even so, it takes us all day, and it’s late when we get back to the boat. I’m exhausted and ready to fall straight into bed.
‘The bounty hunters might be back. We’d better get going now,’ Dad says. ‘It’s a long journey to New London from here so I’ll need you both to do night watches.’
Aria groans and pulls a face.
‘It’s OK,’ I reassure her. ‘We’ll do them together. It’ll be fun.’
I picture t
he night sea; the silver moon and stars reflected in the pitch-black water. I know Dad is always only half asleep when we are on watch, ready to rush on deck if we see another boat or if the wind changes direction, so there’s nothing to worry about.
‘Night sailing is definitely not my idea of fun,’ Aria moans. ‘It’s just so black, so quiet. It gives me the creeps.’
She’s right about the quiet; a delicious peace cloaks the night sea.
We eat dinner on deck under the stars. Despite the light wind, we make good progress. I glance at the sea. It’s become so calm it’s glassy, like a polished mirror, reflecting the night sky perfectly. It’s beautiful, but I’ve been sailing long enough to recognise the signs. The calm before the storm.
‘Dad, did you see anything about a storm?’
‘No. There was nothing forecast,’ Dad says.
We gaze at the low clouds on the horizon, skimming the peaks of land. Signs of variable winds. Change is coming.
Aria sniffs the air and frowns.
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ Dad says, but his face is taut.
Over the next few hours, it becomes clear we were right to be worried. The weather forecast was wrong. The wind picks up, whipping the waves into angry white crests. Clouds cover the moon.
Our boat may be old and heavy, but it’s strongly built. The dark wood creaks and groans as we’re tossed about by the waves. With each breaking wave, a flood of salty seawater crashes over the deck, soaking us to the skin and making my eyes sting.
I concentrate on cutting through the waves at an angle to minimise the motion. Aria retreats to her cabin feeling seasick. Despite living on a boat all her life, she’s never quite got used to rough seas. Unlike me, the sea is not her natural environment.
Dad reefs in the main sail, reducing the speed. It makes the boat a little easier to manage, but it’s not enough.
The large genoa sail at the bow still pulls us around like a rag doll.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Dad says, struggling to control the wild genoa. ‘We might capsize. I’m going to have to swap the genoa for the storm sail.’
I don’t want him to go. Changing a sail in this weather is such a difficult and dangerous task, but there’s no other option. The tough little storm sail is our only hope.
Dad sets off to the front of the boat. Beyond the mast, he fades into the darkness. The wind whips his voice away. Blindly, I hold the course and hope that was what he shouted as he went forward.
Time drags on and he still hasn’t come back. Fear clamps my heart and squeezes it tight. I search the sea, filled with dread. If a wave swept him overboard I wouldn’t see or hear him fall, and even if I did, it would be almost impossible to rescue him in such a rough sea.
From the darkness, a shadowy figure crawls back along the deck, dragging itself against the force of the wind.
Relief floods through me. ‘Dad! You’re OK! I was so worried.’
Dad hauls himself back into the cockpit. I relax for a moment. That’s all it takes. In that one instant, a wave catches the rudder and jerks the wheel out of my hands. It spins wildly and the boat lurches to the side.
‘Gybe,’ I shout, too late, as the boom swings violently across the boat, catching Dad on the side of his head. He crumples. A trickle of sticky, red blood oozes from his head. What can I do? I can’t let go of the wheel in the storm. Not even for a second. Is he even breathing?
‘Ariaaaa … help me … now … please … help …’ I yell as loudly as I can over the raging storm and crashing waves.
‘What is it?’ she says, crawling on hands and knees up the stairs into the cockpit. Normally at this point Aria would be moaning about how seasick she feels and how much she hates sailing, but she must be able to hear the panic in my voice and doesn’t complain.
Her eyes bulge as she spots Dad lying in a heap. She examines him while I explain what happened.
‘He’s unconscious, but the wound isn’t too bad,’ she says. ‘I promise it won’t look so awful once the bleeding stops and I clean it up. He’ll be ok, he’s just going to have one huge headache.’
She pulls the medical kit out from one of the lockers and deftly bandages his head up. He’s far too heavy for her to move him down below on her own, so she makes him as comfortable as possible on the floor of the cockpit.
While she’s busy, I focus on sailing. It’s almost impossible with the boat pitching and rolling so violently. One minute I’m heaving the wheel hard to port, then it’s hard to starboard, and that’s just trying to keep us steady. It would only take one of the giant waves hitting us full on the beam to cause us to roll, and maybe even sink. I know I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it happen.
I’ve never handled the boat on my own during a big storm before, but I know what I need to do, and I can read the sea well enough to anticipate the next assault. I grit my teeth and concentrate as hard as I can. Hour after hour we plough on through the turmoil. Exhaustion fills me. My arms are weak from the effort and my hands are numb but I keep a vice-like grip on the wheel.
We spend the rest of the night like this; Aria wedged into a corner looking pale and frightened, Dad conscious again but motionless, and me fighting with the wheel. Time stands still, the wind howls and waves batter us relentlessly. We’re too tired and scared to talk.
Morning breaks and the sky starts to lighten, turning faintly pinkish. The sun creeps over the horizon and I can feel the wind get a little lighter too.
The storm sail did its job and kept us from capsizing. I forgive it for being a squat, ugly, chunk of canvas.
As the waves get less violent, Aria starts to recover from her seasickness, the colour slowly returns to her cheeks. She checks on Dad one more time, then disappears downstairs.
‘What’s for breakfast?’ I call as she passes the galley.
‘Nothing, I need to work out where we are,’ she says, plonking herself down at the chart table. ‘We got totally blown off course during the storm.’
‘Do you have any idea where we are then?’
‘No. Most of the instruments, including the GPS, got damaged during the storm. Maybe we could use the radar, just this once?’
‘No way. The radar would instantly flag up our position to everyone. Pirates, bounty hunters, trackers …. No chance. And especially not while we have a package on board.’
‘OK. I’ll get a rough position now and take an accurate reading from the stars tonight and work out exactly where we are then.’
I grab a packet of biscuits and start munching.
‘Mum wouldn’t approve of that for breakfast,’ she grumbles. I get a knot in my stomach as I think, Mum’s not here, but I don’t say anything.
A pod of dolphins joins us, leaping and diving, oblivious to the horrible night we just survived. After playing in the bow wave for a while, most of the pod drifts off to find new playmates. Just three remain, racing alongside the boat. Three very familiar characters.
‘Hey, Finn,’ they greet me cheerfully, their clicks and clacks translating fluently in my head. ‘Did you see the size of the waves last night? They were epic.’
‘Couldn’t miss them,’ I reply, ‘since I’m on a boat in the middle of the sea. And they were not epic. They were awful. You could have warned me there was a storm coming. It wasn’t in our forecast.’
‘Sorry, Finn,’ they say. ‘We were on a mission.’
‘OK super sleuths, what are you doing here then? If you’re on a mission, shouldn’t you be off doing something important?’
‘This is our mission. You’ll see. Someone wants to meet you. Follow us. This way,’ they call, darting ahead.
‘Who wants to meet us?’ I ask.
‘Wait and see,’ they reply.
‘Are you talking to yourself?’ Aria says, sticking her head up through a hatch on the deck.
‘No. Yes. Whate
ver,’ I say.
Aria joins me on deck and checks the compass. ‘How did you decide what course to steer?’ she asks.
‘Uhm. I’m kind of just following those dolphins,’ I say. ‘They told me to.’
‘I can’t believe we’re navigating by dolphin,’ Aria laughs.
‘Well, until you work out where we are, it’s going to have to do for a course.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘One other thing, they said there was someone who wanted to meet us.’
‘That’s strange. Did they say who?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Shall I take a turn on the helm and you can get some sleep?’
With the gentle motion of the waves, such a relief after the violence of the storm, and the complete physical exhaustion, I’m rocked to sleep in seconds. When I wake up, the sun is high in the sky. I climb the mast and clamber into the crow’s nest. The view from up here is amazing. I look down at the outline of our boat and silently thank her for keeping us safe during the storm last night.
I scan the horizon. I can just make out a small island. The dolphins appear to be heading in that direction. Despite the solid construction of our boat, the streamlined shape slices cleanly through the waves so we’re faster than you might expect. Even so, the island is still several hours away.
I take a turn on the helm whilst Aria dozes. As we get closer, I can see the shore. Palm trees sway in the breeze. Birdsong fills the air. A broad sandy bay curves around a turquoise lagoon, protected by sharp coral reefs. It appears to be uninhabited.
The dolphins guide us through the coral maze without a scratch and we drop the anchor. The holding is good and the anchor ploughs securely into the seabed. I allow myself a little flush of pride – I made it through the storm and to a safe harbour. A cloud quickly returns though; Dad is injured, and being on an unknown desert island is never good.
Dad stands up woozily. ‘Where are we? Why are we anchored?’ Without waiting for an answer, he wobbles his way downstairs to his cabin.
