Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

  There were many eyes watching Verity’s progress. On the other side of the quay Jeb pushed through the crowd towards Isaac. ‘She’s not going out there alone, is she?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘She can do it,’ his grandfather replied.

  Meanwhile, on the tender, Grandmother was looking back towards the quay. ‘Let her follow if she likes,’ she sneered as she spotted the little wooden dinghy with the red sail setting out behind them. ‘She’ll find it hard to keep up with her weight.’ Miranda let out her best delicate tinkle of a laugh.

  Abednego’s progress was swift, but Grandmother saw that, despite what she’d said, Verity was gaining on them rapidly, leaning out as far as she could: the flatter the boat, the quicker she would go.

  ‘What an annoying little mosquito she is,’ muttered the old lady.

  Miranda put on her best smile. ‘Too stout to be a mosquito surely?’ she asked coquettishly.

  Grandmother smiled and patted the girl’s thin cheek. ‘This will send her back to shore …’ she said.

  On the horizon a squall appeared. The sky within it was dark and menacing, casting a shadow on the sea’s surface. The waves directly beneath it were choppy and flecked with foamy white. ‘Oh, how clever.’ Miranda clapped her hands in delight.

  ‘Just a little something to frighten her,’ Grandmother muttered to herself.

  The watchers on the quayside saw the squall. They saw Verity let off both sheets with calm efficiency so the sails flapped loose. Poor Honesty stopped.

  ‘She’s not moving to face the wind,’ a man near Isaac gasped.

  ‘No,’ Isaac agreed. ‘I expect she plans to sail through it.’

  More and more people were gathering on the quay as word rippled through the crowd.

  ‘Excuse me. Excuse me. Mind out. Coming through. Move to the left, will you?’

  Jeb couldn’t see Henry yet but there could be no mistaking his voice. Sure enough, the sandy-haired boy soon appeared from behind a scowling spectator.

  Henry ignored the man’s huffs. ‘I need your boat,’ he gasped to Jeb, slightly out of breath. ‘Verity’s got mine.’

  Jeb wondered what this small Twogood thought he could possibly do against the might of the Mistress. There’d been no Original Story about any Henry. ‘You can’t go out there. You’ll drown.’

  ‘The only person who’s in any danger of drowning is Verity,’ insisted Henry. ‘She’s the one on the water. And I’m her friend. I have to help.’

  ‘The story is about Verity,’ said Jeb. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s who Rafe chose.’

  Henry had had enough of all this hocus-pocus for one day. ‘I don’t care if Rafe’s story says we all sit here and have a picnic. I’m going to help her,’ he said firmly. ‘Now, can I use your dinghy or not?’

  Jeb stared at the determined slant of Henry’s chin. The boy was right. To hell with Rafe Gallant and his story. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but I’m coming too.’

  Verity moved into the centre of the boat and crouched as low as she could, gripping onto both rudder and gunwale. The squall hit the boat with a vicious bang. Poor Honesty pitched and heeled violently. Everything flapped furiously. The sheets tugged through the blocks like frantic snakes. The noise was hellish.

  She’d never sailed in conditions like this before, but there was no time to panic. She looked up at the burgee – the little flag at the top of the mast – to check the wind direction. She knew the sensible thing to do would be to face into the wind and let the sails loose. But there was no time for that. She had to try and get through the weather. The boat was working itself round to face the squall. She partially sheeted in the mainsail to draw in just a little of the wind – not too much or the boat would heel and capsize.

  Verity steeled herself to sit out as far as she could. It was terrifying. The main sheet was still flapping violently. The jib was flying loose. She needed a little power from that small front sail too, if she was to make progress. But the sheet that controlled the jib was dangling over the side of the boat, dragging uselessly in the sea, and she didn’t dare move to retrieve it. It made the boat a lot less easy to steer and the tiller far heavier, but she didn’t have a choice.

  Cold salt spray was whipping in Verity’s face, stinging bitterly. Each time the dinghy pitched she saw the sea rear higher than the boat, threatening to swallow her with every roll.

  Grandmother was burning with anger at Verity’s audacious defiance. Miranda seemed thrilled by the sport of it, leaning over to get a better look. The old lady glared at the dinghy, and the wind increased in intensity.

  The crowd on the quayside could see its effect and watched Poor Honesty, silent and fearful.

  ‘Come on, Verity,’ Isaac breathed.

  On the jetty, Jeb jumped nimbly into the dinghy and grabbed the rudder. ‘I’ll helm,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit temperamental.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Henry as he untied the painter. He looked up to see Martha climbing awkwardly down the metal ladder to the gangway. ‘You’re not coming with us,’ he told her, pre-empting anything she might have to say on the subject.

  ‘Don’t you need more weight when the weather’s choppy?’ Martha asked, still heading towards them.

  Henry frowned at her. ‘One day trip does not make you a sailor,’ he said bluntly.

  Martha clambered over the gunwale and sat down obstinately.

  ‘You’re just going to get in the way,’ he insisted.

  ‘Are we going to go out there and help Verity or sit here arguing about it?’ she asked.

  He cursed under his breath. Jeb shrugged.

  ‘You ready?’ Henry asked him. Jeb nodded in reply, so Henry stood on the gunwale and gave a hefty shove against the jetty to push off.

  Jeb steered expertly away from the quay, filling the mainsail with wind while Henry busily sheeted in the jib. Jeb noticed that Henry didn’t look even slightly scared; just purposeful and determined.

  ‘I’m sorry I called you a Twogood turncoat,’ he blurted out unexpectedly. Henry looked up, surprised. ‘Your grandda saw what the Mistress was,’ Jeb continued. ‘But it took Ruby’s death for Rafe and Isaac to realize.’

  Henry blinked. ‘I expect I’ve been quite snotty to you too,’ he admitted.

  ‘For a little ’un you don’t give much ground,’ Jeb agreed.

  ‘Six older brothers,’ Henry explained. ‘Does wonders for your determination.’

  In the depth of the squall, the thought of every malicious dig and jibe made by Grandmother spurred Verity on. She had to get her sister back. She sat out a little more to gain speed.

  ‘I – will – not – turn – back,’ she muttered to herself, gritting her teeth against the freezing cold and peering blindly through the wall of spray.

  The rowing boat had reached the Storm now. Grandmother was helped aboard, snapping angrily at her crew – taking her temper out on whoever was nearest. The impudence. The sheer defiant insolence of that idiot child. Her temper – always thinly stretched at the best of times – snapped.

  ‘It will be worth the risk to be rid of you,’ she hissed, throwing both her arms out again in the direction of the dinghy.

  The squall intensified. A new gust of wind blasted the mainsail. Verity mustered all her courage and sat even further out of the boat in a last-ditch attempt to keep her righted. But she was just one girl in a boat meant for two. The dinghy reached tipping point and Verity realized she just didn’t have enough weight. As the boat pitched onto its side, she hopped over the gunwale and onto the centreboard.

  She was now standing precariously on the half-capsized boat while its sails floated in the water. The wind howled. To right the dinghy, she would have to pull with all her strength and lift the sopping wet sails – heavy with water – out of the sea. The waves crashed around her as she heaved on the main sheet.

  ‘I – will – not – turn – back,’ she repeated to herself. ‘I – will – not – turn – back.’

  The
mast came up to vertical, moving faster as it righted itself. Water streamed off the sails and rigging onto Verity. Fast as lightning, she stepped off the board and over the gunwale into the sopping wet hull.

  In the harbour everyone cheered and clapped for the valiant little girl.

  ‘She’s not out of the woods yet though,’ said Isaac Tempest.

  A man appeared at his side. His once handsome face was now lined and scored; his blue eyes burned with anxiety. ‘Do you think I’ve done the wrong thing?’ he asked.

  Isaac shook his head, but couldn’t hide his concern as another massive gust of wind hit the dinghy. Poor Honesty didn’t stand a chance: her sails were wet, her rigging was sopping. She was far too top-heavy. This time she turned turtle, taking Verity into the sea with her.

  Henry, Jeb and Martha were making good progress. With three of them on board they were able to keep the dinghy on an even keel. Martha leaned out dutifully, her eyes scrunched tight shut. She’d found it was the best way to avoid feeling very, very sick. The little boat was planing now: juddering and thrumming with the effort of going at her maximum possible speed.

  A man on the quay spotted the three children. ‘Ain’t that Jeb Tempest? And the Twogood nipper with some other lass?’ he exclaimed.

  A shimmer of excitement spread through the crowd. ‘They’re going to help her,’ someone shouted. ‘Must be her pals.’

  Out in the dinghy, Henry stared in amazement at the squall – a tight ball of weather – surrounding Verity and the upturned boat. ‘She’s turned turtle,’ he shouted to Jeb. ‘I don’t think Verity can right her.’

  ‘It’s no use sailing into the squall,’ Jeb called back. ‘The Mistress will have us all then.’

  Henry had no intention of giving up. ‘We’ll have to throw a sheet to her and pull her out,’ he yelled back. ‘Outrun the squall. Think you can go that fast?’ He turned round and grinned, unable to resist a small dig.

  Jeb smiled. ‘Just watch me.’

  Verity gasped with shock as she fell into the choppy water. It was bitterly cold. Poor Honesty bobbed about, finally stable. Verity scrabbled at the wet wooden hull, trying to pull herself out of the water. Her feet kept kicking under the boat, making it difficult to gain any purchase, but she still managed to get a hold.

  Immediately another wave hit the dinghy and knocked her off before she could climb onto the upturned hull.

  Then the squall seemed to intensify. Verity gasped again. The cold was like a punch to the chest. She thought frantically of Henry’s instructions. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to him? Then she remembered. Scrambling around the upturned boat, she looked for a loose sheet to throw over the hull. Success. Flinging it across, she swam round to the other side, coughing and spluttering as the waves buffeted her. Verity grabbed the rope and used it to haul herself up onto the hull again. She clung to the centreboard and tried to catch her breath, shuddering with cold.

  She knew she didn’t have the strength to swim beyond the squall or right the boat again. Now she could see Jeb’s dinghy approaching. Henry was there, waving and shouting something she couldn’t hear … but he’d never get through. Grandmother would see to that. This was it. Grandmother had won. She was going to die.

  On the quay the crowd were silent. They could see that Verity was exhausted. Isaac Tempest stood there quietly, his pipe hanging from his fingers. His companion clutched anxiously at his silver forelock. ‘What if they can’t—?’ he moaned.

  ‘They’re coming for her,’ Isaac insisted, his eyes fixed on Jeb’s dinghy.

  Verity saw Henry leaning out of the dinghy, bellowing something at her – but she couldn’t hear him. He looked so desperate and frustrated.

  The events of the last six months flashed through her mind. How strange that it had all started with Abednego’s arrival and it should finish with him so near at hand. I cannot help you more than I have done, she heard him saying.

  As she clung onto the upturned boat, soaked to the skin, Verity’s consciousness threw out a desperate series of memories, like shutters opening up one by one.

  ‘The eye of the storm,’ said Henry in the reading room. ‘The calm at the centre of the gale.’

  ‘Surely there might also be a device that stills the weather,’ Jasper speculated in the library.

  ‘The Storm is coming,’ said Abednego once more as he took something from his pocket and placed it on top of her book. She remembered the infinite stillness in her room.

  Verity’s mind made the final connection. She knew now what Abednego had meant. Still clinging to the boat with one hand, she rummaged in her sodden pocket for the strange wooden ball he had given her with the book. It was there. Verity pulled it out and held it tightly. She mustn’t drop it. She pushed and pulled at it – the eye of the Storm – grimly trying to remember how she’d opened it before.

  She was now lying with her whole body curled around the centreboard, her hands scrabbling at the ball. All at once the seal opened. Her heart in her mouth, Verity spun the marble centre around in its casing, praying it would work. The curious eye turned to face her.

  In an instant the squall disappeared. All was calm.

  On the quay the people cheered and applauded. Amongst them men were shaking complete strangers by the hand and women were dabbing at their eyes with hankies.

  On Jeb’s dinghy the three crew members hugged each other in jubilation. Henry exhaled with relief, then gave a weak smile. ‘Didn’t think she was going to make it there,’ he said in as jokey a tone as he could manage. Jeb watched thoughtfully.

  ‘The eye of the Storm,’ Verity shouted, elated. She jumped up, standing recklessly on the hull. ‘It’s the eye of the Storm,’ she repeated.

  On the Storm, Grandmother gasped. ‘It can’t be …’ she hissed. ‘How could …?’ She was livid. ‘How did she get that?’ she howled. ‘The thieving little guttersnipe.’ All self-control lost, she reverted for a second to her natural shape. Her death’s-head face, her petrifying skeletal limbs, the unmistakable odour of decay … all were revealed.

  Miranda took a careful step towards her, still clutching the bundle that was Verity’s new sister.

  ‘Why don’t you rest for a while?’ she soothed. ‘Surely your crew can deal with a nuisance like her on their own?’

  Grandmother glared balefully at Miranda for a second and then acknowledged the point. ‘Abednego,’ she bellowed in a gale-blast of fury. Her captain looked up in acknowledgement. ‘Set sail now,’ she ordered, striding across the deck towards her cabin. ‘You will notify me of any attempts to board.

  ‘Let her try if she wishes,’ she muttered, taking one final look out to sea. ‘It will save a task later.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Henry, Jeb and Martha sailed up to Verity. Henry leaned out of the boat to help pull her in.

  ‘It’s the eye of the Storm,’ she shouted out. ‘It brings calm.’

  ‘Don’t stand on an upturned hull, you idiot,’ Henry scolded. ‘You’ll fall in again.’

  Verity was riding high on a surge of adrenalin. She jumped into Jeb’s boat, making it rock and sway.

  ‘Easy,’ he warned.

  ‘Did you see me?’ she babbled. ‘Did you see? I think I did quite well really. I tried to remember everything I’d learned.’

  It was the final straw for Henry. ‘Yes, we saw you,’ he snapped. ‘Trying to sail through a squall: it was a ridiculous thing to do.’

  Verity stopped in mid-flow. Then it hit her. She had nearly died. Henry grabbed her and gave her a hug. She held onto him and sniffed. ‘Thanks for coming to get me,’ she said.

  Henry let go. ‘ ’S all right.’

  ‘I still have to get to the Storm,’ she added tentatively, in case anyone thought they could talk her out of it. ‘I know it’s dangerous, but I’ve got to.’

  Jeb, for one, had no intention of talking her round. He scanned the Storm, trying to see what was happening on deck. ‘Can’t spot the Mistress,’ he said, frowning. H
e stared up at the ship’s soaring masts and spars. There were crewmen climbing expertly up the shrouds. A man near the top unfurled the first gigantic square of cloth. They heard the ripple and crack as it filled with wind. Others were doing the same across the rigging.

  ‘They’re preparing to set sail,’ Jeb said anxiously.

  ‘She’s got my sister,’ panicked Verity. More sails were dropping across the square lattice of rigging. The crew went busily about their tasks on deck.

  ‘They’re not paying any attention to us,’ said Henry. Taking command, he turned to Jeb. ‘Tack now,’ he said. ‘I think we can make it.’

  Jeb moved the rudder to swing the dinghy in the direction of the Storm.

  ‘You take the jib,’ Henry instructed Verity. ‘Martha, you and I will have to sit out: we need as much speed as possible.’

  Martha just nodded. She was too scared to say or do anything now that they were in the middle of the wide, open sea and at the mercy of Verity’s grandmother.

  Verity felt sick with worry as the dinghy began to pick up speed. The Storm looked impenetrable. Suddenly they heard an order relayed across her decks.

  ‘They’re weighing anchor,’ shouted Jeb.

  The dinghy was racing along now, water splashing over the gunwales. Verity was still sodden from the capsizing of Poor Honesty. As they sped across the water, the wind chilled her to the bone. But all that mattered was getting to the Storm before she set sail; getting to her baby sister in time. The Storm’s best anchor clanked up out of the waves with a groan.

  ‘We’re not going to make it,’ she fretted.

  At last they were gaining. As they approached, the Storm’s hull rose above them, dark and forbidding. A stray Jacob’s ladder was dangling down, swaying with the increasing movement of the ship. Jeb set a course straight for it.