Smudge breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Just enough squid ink left for my voyage.’
Then she thought of what might lie ahead – terrifying monsters, storms she couldn’t tame, the creature itself in all its horror – and suddenly Smudge felt a flood of longing for a companion, for someone who might stop her legs wobbling and her heart hammering.
She took a deep breath, dipped her quill into the ink and, resigning herself to the fact that she was well and truly alone, she lifted the nib to an empty space on the sail. A word appeared by Smudge’s hand, in black swirled lettering.
Destination:
Smudge scribbled her answer opposite.
Lonekragg
A second passed, Smudge’s writing disappeared then the word ‘autocorrect’ flashed in its place before vanishing and leaving the spellchecked version of the destination Smudge had intended.
Lonecrag
Smudge blushed. But the boat didn’t seem to mind that she couldn’t spell because now two more words appeared that required an answer.
Preferred route:
Smudge considered this, then wrote:
not shore
The spellcheck did a little more jiggling, then asked for the final piece of information.
Number of passengers:
Smudge wrote her response as neatly as possible (which wasn’t very neat at all):
won
Predictably, the spellcheck flashed again, but, rather more unpredictably, the words on the sail now read:
Number of passengers:
two
Smudge blinked. Two?
She glanced at the pier and jumped. There was the white-nosed monkey standing beside the boat, a trilby on his head, his suitcase by his side.
‘I thought you’d run off when the Nightdaggers came,’ she said, ‘but you’re still here! And actually that’s not such a bad thing because I think this might all go a bit better if I’ve got some company, even if it is in the form of a monkey who’s never smiled.’
‘If we are going to attempt this voyage together,’ the monkey replied tartly, ‘it would be far more agreeable if you would address me by my proper name.’
Smudge’s mouth fell open because never, in all the time she had known the monkey, had she ever heard him speak. ‘You – you can talk?’
‘Of course I can talk.’ The monkey lifted his leather suitcase and dropped it into the boat. ‘It’s just that up until now you have neither said nor done anything of interest, so I would only have been wasting my breath by speaking to you.’
He hopped aboard and sat cross-legged on the bench opposite Smudge. The long grey hairs hanging from his cheeks twitched. ‘But now I am ready for a conversation.’
‘So your voice is your enchanted element?’ Smudge murmured. ‘I never knew!’
‘My voice and my loyalty to you.’ He sniffed. ‘White-nosed monkeys are usually solitary animals, but, since the elves cast their enchantment over me, I have been obliged to traipse around after you.’
‘And you have a name, you said?’
The monkey adjusted his trilby. ‘My name is Bartholomew.’
Smudge considered this. ‘Can I call you Bart for short? It’s a bit of a mouthful otherwise.’
The monkey raised an eyebrow. ‘Absolutely not. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it’s nicknames. They are detestably common.’ He poked Smudge in the back. ‘I also loathe sloppy posture. If people were to face each day with a straight spine, they would accomplish a great deal more.’
Bartholomew leaned over the boat and untied the mooring rope. ‘Well, are we setting sail or are we just going to sit here until whatever it was that rose from Everdark comes back and eats us?’
Smudge stood up. ‘Right. Yes.’ She placed a palm on either side of the dragonhide sail – the final touch needed for the boat to work its magic and carry its passengers, however weak or non-existent the wind was, to their selected destination. She looked shyly at Bartholomew. ‘You’re really coming with me?’ she whispered. ‘It’s just that I’ve always thought you hated danger and risks and, well, anything at all that didn’t involve sleeping or drinking tea. You always looked so unimpressed whenever I got into any kind of trouble.’
‘I do hate danger,’ the monkey replied. ‘And risks. But last year I turned sixty-five – I know, you don’t have to say it, Smudge, I don’t look a day over thirty – and I was all set for a glorious retirement, but then, on a most uncharacteristic whim, I ended up offering my services to the Lofty Husks. I wanted to do my bit for Crackledawn before I took a long-earned rest, you know – it’s been home to me and my ancestors for a great many years now. But, I must admit, I had rather thought a spot of cooking aboard Dragonclaw or a stint volunteering in the Den might have suited me better than being cast in an enchantment and given to you.’
Bartholomew steadied himself on the bench as the boat inched away from the pier.
‘I may have gained a voice out of all this,’ he went on, ‘but, what with tramping around after you as you dilly-dally your way through life, my hopes of a restful retirement now seem depressingly far away. But –’ he nibbled at his fingers as the boat wove its way between the walkways and drifted, despite the lack of wind, out to sea – ‘now that the end of Crackledawn seems nigh and I see you’re finally doing something sensible – running away from danger instead of into it – I thought I’d hop aboard.’
Smudge was starting to feel a little uneasy. ‘Where exactly do you think we’re going, Bartholomew?’
The monkey smiled wistfully. ‘Somewhere beyond Crackledawn and all this nasty dark magic – somewhere wonderfully beautiful where I can retire.’
Smudge grimaced out to sea, but Bartholomew continued to chatter away.
‘You see, when the elves gave me this position, they read my future in the stars. They said that one day you would sail me somewhere glorious – they didn’t say when or where – and to be honest I rather thought it would be a little later in your Sunraiding career. But I’ve seen all your sketches of the lands beyond Crackledawn and here we are, sailing out to one of them now!’
Smudge wanted to say that those lands were places conjured from her imagination and that she had no idea what lay past Crackledawn or if she’d even be able to cross over into another land, but Bartholomew looked so happy that she didn’t want to disappoint him.
Smudge glanced at the suitcase under the bench. ‘What’s in there?’
‘My Uncle Jeremy’s golf clubs,’ Bartholomew replied. ‘Retirement wouldn’t be complete without them.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So, what irresistibly relaxing destination are we off to then?’
Smudge kept her eyes firmly on the sea. ‘Lonecrag.’
Bartholomew toppled backwards off the bench, then reappeared, seconds later, clutching his trilby. ‘Lonecrag! That’s deep-water territory where all those oversized eels splash about! In case you didn’t know, white-nosed monkeys loathe deep water.’ He shuddered. ‘How on earth am I meant to relax alongside ogre eels and fire krakens? No, that won’t do at all.’
Smudge turned to face him. ‘We have to go to Lonecrag, Bartholomew – to save Crackledawn.’
The monkey seized his tail and held it close. ‘You mean to say that you’re not running away?’
Smudge shook her head. ‘I saw a winged creature after that terrible screech tonight and I watched it head out towards Lonecrag. I think it sent the Nightdaggers to curse Crackledawn and stall the Lofty Husks. So, now I’m going to trap the creature in a sunraiding net and force it to release the Unmappers. Then the elves will be free and once they get rid of the creature everything will go back to normal.’
Bartholomew gawped at Smudge. ‘WHAT? But you’re still just beginning your studies and, let’s be honest, you’re not exactly a star pupil. A sunraiding net might have magical properties, but how on earth do you think you’re going to trap the creature that has already cursed every Unmapper in Crackledawn?’
‘Every Unmapper except me,’ Smudge
said quietly.
Bartholomew picked up the sunraiding net. The handle was chipped and riddled with woodworm and the net itself was only the size of a dinner plate. But these nets could grow to fifty times their original size to accommodate vast hauls of sun-chatter and, if a Sunraider uttered the right spell, the rope that made up the net could bind its contents impossibly tight. Even so, Bartholomew didn’t look convinced. ‘I am not sure about this. Not sure at all.’
Smudge took a deep breath. ‘Neither am I. In fact, the thought of facing the creature makes me feel completely terrified. But I can’t just give up on Crackledawn and . . . and I can’t just give up on myself.’ She glanced up at the velvet sky. ‘I’ve always had a feeling inside me – a fierce little niggle – that I was born to do something different from everybody else, something extraordinary perhaps.’ She put a hand on her chest. ‘And I can feel that niggle in here right now.’
‘Probably indigestion,’ Bartholomew sniffed. ‘That episode with the Nightdaggers would’ve been enough to rock the strongest of constitutions.’
Smudge ignored him. ‘What if I’m right? What if the extraordinary thing I’m meant to do is save Crackledawn?’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘It won’t be like trapping sun-chatter, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Smudge glanced at the lantern on the bow of the boat, which was now glowing gold against the night. She peered over the edge of the dhow and, though the sea was dark, now and again she caught a glimpse of the sun-chatter glittering on the ocean floor. The rest of her class would have known exactly what sounds they were, even without leaning closer to hear the sun-chatter whispering through the water, but Smudge was useless at identifying sun-chatter just through its whereabouts. She could never remember whether it was hiccups that lay just beyond Wildhorn or giggles that clung like barnacles to the rocks lining reefs further out or the other way around.
The Coddiwomple pushed on through the water, leaving Wildhorn far behind. Smudge sat down opposite Bartholomew. ‘Once I’ve trapped this creature, I promise I’ll swing by a peaceful island – maybe Turtle Shallows or Goldshell Cove – and drop you and your golf clubs off.’
Bartholomew huffed. ‘And may I ask what provisions you have brought for us should we get waylaid on our little jaunt?’
Smudge’s face lit up. ‘Bananas. A whole bunch.’
Bartholomew threw her a withering look. ‘We’re off in pursuit of a creature whose cry made even Greyhobble’s voice tremble and we are armed with nothing but a BUNCH OF BANANAS?’
Smudge blushed – perhaps a little more forward planning would have been helpful – but the adventure had sort of started without warning. Bartholomew sighed as he flicked open the catches on his suitcase, nudged the golf clubs aside and drew out two china cups, a teapot and some jungleleaf tea bags. Smudge noticed he’d even packed a water purifier so that they could make the tea using salt water.
‘All I can say is thank goodness for Great-aunt Mildred’s tea set. And I brought the leftover muffins we shared for supper earlier, as well as a change of clothes for you –’ he reached over the side of the boat and dunked the purifier into the water – ‘so, when we are held captive by some ghastly sea creature, at least we will not starve or look dishevelled during the ordeal.’
They sipped their tea as the boat sailed on and on over the sleeping ocean and, though the prospect of accosting the creature – whatever it was – sent shivers down Smudge’s spine, she did feel a tiny bit hopeful about the journey. Because there were no rules now – no blueprint for how things should be done. This was her voyage and, provided that she and Bartholomew didn’t throttle each other en route, she was in with a chance of leaving her mark on the world at last.
After draining her tea, Smudge climbed up on to the roof of the canopy and cuddled up in the dusty blankets there. Bartholomew insisted he wasn’t tired and, once he had scooped up the old coconut shells heaped in the bottom of the boat, he began thwacking them off the roof of the canopy with his golf club.
‘Might as well get a bit of practice in,’ he muttered. ‘My swing could do with some tweaking.’
But, when Bartholomew was sure that Smudge was asleep, he laid down his golf club, pulled the blankets up over the girl’s shoulders and brushed the hair from her face. He rolled his eyes at his sentimentality. White-nosed monkeys were meant to be moody and aloof. Having complicated emotions and – worse still – expressing them was not at all the done thing.
Bartholomew sighed. The elves’ enchantment really was a tricky thing. And now it made even going to sleep irritatingly problematic because, whether he liked it or not, he felt protective of Smudge. And that was all well and good back on Wildhorn, but out here, miles from home and from the wisdom of the Lofty Husks, it would be another matter entirely.
‘Sit up straight,’ Bartholomew barked.
They were on top of the canopy of the dhow, eating muffins and sailing into the most splendid sunrise Smudge had ever seen. The wind had picked up, jostling the bronze-backed seagulls circling the mast and gusting against the dragonhide sail. Smudge breathed in the salt-filled air and for the briefest of moments she forgot that the existence of her kingdom was hanging by a thread and instead simply listened to the sun-chatter humming below the boat – a melody so sweet and pure it could have been made from honey.
Then Smudge’s ears hooked on another sound and she clutched Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Listen . . .’
It was a rumbling sort of purr that was almost a growl – and it was coming from the dark stack of rocks jutting out of the sea in the shape of a witch’s hat, a few miles ahead.
‘Lonecrag,’ Smudge whispered and she shrank into her tunic. These were dangerous waters, out of bounds to unqualified Sunraiders, but here she was, sailing into the midst of them. A shiver crawled through her as she remembered the story of the kraken that had brought down three dhows with a single tentacle last year. Could she really be a match for such terrible beasts? Then she thought of the rock goblins back at Wildhorn beavering away in the Den. They were looking to her to capture the creature; she couldn’t back out now, even though her heart was racing and her limbs were stiff with fear.
‘My guess is that it’s the creature making that noise,’ Smudge whispered to Bartholomew.
The white-nosed monkey nodded. ‘I believe ogre eels groan and fire krakens roar, so this could well be whatever you saw last night.’
Smudge slipped down from the canopy, picked up the sunraiding net, then handed the penknife to Bartholomew. ‘Once we’re close enough, I’ll swipe at the creature with the net then, while you scribble Wildhorn on to the sail so the dhow is prepared to leave immediately, I’ll perform the rope-locking spell to hold the creature in the net until we get back to Dragonclaw.’
Bartholomew shifted. ‘You mean the spell that you attempted last week only it backfired and turned Crumpet’s ears blue?’
Smudge tried not to think about that particular accident, but instead focused on the words she would have to say if she snared the creature in her net.
Bartholomew held up the penknife. ‘Remind me why I’ve got this?’
‘Backup.’
The monkey swallowed.
They sailed on silently. There were no seagulls in these parts and the marble-eyed dolphins that had been following them were now nowhere to be seen. But, more worryingly, Smudge noticed that the lantern at the bow was glowing far less frequently. Was the sun-chatter already starting to disappear because of the failed Rising? How long did they have before the magic of the phoenix ran out completely?
Smudge glanced over the edge of the dhow and blinked. ‘The water,’ she hissed, ‘it’s black!’
The monkey nodded. ‘Seawater can change colour depending on the types of creatures that swim in it. Silver for the silver whales – naturally – and green for sirens.’
‘What makes it black?’
Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Ogre eels and fire krakens, I presume . . .’
Smudge edge
d closer to the monkey as the boat sailed on towards the rocks. They were slippery black and draped in seaweed and, though both Smudge and Bartholomew could still hear the strange purring, they couldn’t see whether this was coming from a winged creature yet.
‘What . . . whatever is making that noise must be on the other side of the rock,’ Smudge stammered.
Bartholomew was too frightened to reply, so Smudge pulled gently on the sail rope and the boat slowed until just the motion of the waves inched it forward. Smudge’s mind reeled with what the creature might look like – a dragon with claws the size of swords, a hippogriff with a razor-sharp beak – and she felt an overwhelming urge to turn back for Wildhorn. But then the boat edged on a little more and an unexpected sight came into view.
Crouched at the base of the rocks by the water was a woman. At least, Smudge supposed it was a woman, though it was hard to tell because she was bald and her whole body was covered in a layer of puckered grey skin – like that of a plucked bird – and instead of feet she had talons. But there was something unmistakably female about the way she swished the feather cloak back and forth in the water before her and the way she purred to herself as she did so. Smudge and Bartholomew peered closer. Were those wings the woman was dipping into the sea? And, if so, could this be the creature Smudge had seen last night? But what kind of creature was part bird, part woman?
‘Thank you, fire kraken, for gifting me your dark magic,’ the woman crooned. ‘Wings are power for a harpy and until I am strong enough to begin my rule in earnest I must look to loyal subjects, like yourself, to sustain mine.’
Smudge tensed. A harpy? She couldn’t remember Crumpet ever speaking of harpies and, while the creature before her now didn’t look like much, there was something about her voice, as if it had been chipped out of ice. Smudge leaned out of the boat and caught a horrifying glimpse of a large suckered tentacle before it sank back into the sea.
‘I will reward you soon for lending me your strength,’ the harpy called after the fire kraken.
Everdark Page 3
