Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

  The dinghy was soon right up against the Storm, completely dwarfed by the huge ship, still apparently unnoticed.

  ‘Your grandmother will probably be in the cabin suite,’ shouted Henry above the slap of the waves. ‘There’s a chance we could sneak in and steal your sister back.’ He tried not to think about the many, many flaws in this ridiculously simple plan.

  Verity stared in horror at the swinging rope ladder. She couldn’t climb that. Henry was already reaching for it, apparently undaunted. With a leap he grabbed it and hopped up a few steps. He leaned back down for Verity. ‘Take my hand,’ he instructed.

  Verity didn’t have time to think. She jumped, reaching for Henry with one hand and the rope ladder with the other.

  ‘Don’t look down,’ Henry shouted as they swung to and fro against the hull.

  Jeb got up to follow her. ‘No,’ said Henry commandingly. ‘You stay here.’

  ‘And let you board on your own? No way.’

  ‘You can’t leave Martha here with the boat,’ said Henry with authority. ‘Verity’s best chance of rescuing her sister is if one of us acts as a decoy and the others wait here to get them back to shore.’

  ‘So let me board the Storm,’ Jeb shouted.

  Henry shook his head in reply. ‘You’re nearly a grownup. They’d show even less mercy to you than they will to me.’

  Verity closed her eyes. The waves were sucking and swirling around the massive ship. The cold was closing in on her.

  Jeb started to argue the point. ‘There’s no time for this, Jeb,’ Martha interrupted. ‘Verity needs to get moving. She’s freezing.’

  Jeb stared helplessly at her. He didn’t like it, but she and Henry were right. At least if he stayed here there’d be a chance Verity might escape.

  ‘You can’t plan to stay on the Storm alone,’ he said finally.

  Henry grinned. ‘Obviously I’ll expect you to come back for me – once you’ve got Verity and the baby home.’

  * * *

  Verity would never know how she made it up that precarious rope ladder. It was like scaling the walls of a fortress. Her hands were numb, scarcely able to grip. But Henry kept encouraging her.

  ‘Not much further,’ he said, looking down at her once more, smiling confidently.

  Poking her head above the edge at last, she saw the vast wooden deck stretching out ahead of her. The imposing grid of masts and spars towered for hundreds of feet into the air. Even through her fear Verity couldn’t help feeling thrilled. The Storm was breathtaking.

  She pulled herself up beside Henry. The two of them stood there, silent. The ship was vast and unbelievably noisy, but it was still astounding that no one had noticed their arrival.

  ‘That’s the cabin suite,’ Henry said in hushed tones, pointing to a door. ‘If I run to the other side of the deck and make a commotion, you might get a chance to sneak in.’

  A few yards in front of them a crew member reversed towards them, apparently intent on swabbing the deck. The two stowaways watched the flamboyantly dressed man with his gold jewellery and vivid silk scarf. What should they do? How could they get past him?

  But the sailor solved their dilemma for them. Dropping his mop, he swivelled round and grabbed both of them by their collars. He held them close and leered at them; he smelled of spiced oil, stale rum and sweat. ‘Come to rescue her?’ he asked.

  Verity’s heart plummeted. They had got no further than the rail.

  ‘Thought you’d just saunter aboard and take her back?’ Holding them both with one hand, he smacked Henry across the ear with the other.

  The sight of her friend being hurt sparked Verity’s temper. She was furious – at her own stupidity, at their helplessness. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted.

  The sailor raised an eyebrow. ‘Some of the Gentry spirit there,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to see if we can beat it out of you.’

  Verity struggled to free herself, but the man just held them tighter still and lifted his other hand again. ‘Don’t think you’ll get any special treatment just because you’re a girl,’ he spat.

  Looking up, he shouted for help. ‘Hey, lads. We’ve got callers.’

  Within seconds a small gang had gathered around the two children: they dropped down from above; they appeared silently from each side; one jumped over the rail of the quarterdeck in his eagerness not to miss out.

  Verity and Henry looked around silently at the hard-looking, weather-beaten crew. Assembled together, they were an intimidating sight. Henry tried very hard not to recall all the stories he’d heard about the crew of the Storm.

  ‘Very touching,’ said one sailor, ‘coming to rescue your baby sister.’

  ‘Do you know what we do with unwelcome guests?’ added another, reaching out to stroke Verity’s cheek as she instinctively flinched away from his touch.

  ‘Shall we kill them now or wait for the Mistress?’ asked the man in the silk scarf.

  ‘We could slice the girl quick and save this one for fun,’ someone suggested, staring aggressively at Henry. ‘Always fancied bringing the Twogoods down a peg or two … tearing them off a strip.’ The man mimed a cutting action then a whipping flick to make sure his meaning was clear. His colleagues laughed nastily.

  Henry stared at the threatening man. ‘Do your worst,’ he muttered – and immediately received a punch in return. Verity felt sick at the sound of the sailor’s knuckles coming into contact with Henry’s body.

  ‘Oh, we will,’ he reassured Henry – who still refused to look cowed. Verity’s mind raced with fear. What had she been thinking? They’d walked straight into Grandmother’s lair. She was going to die; Henry too. And it was all her fault.

  The Storm was now straining and swaying in the water: with her sails filled, she was held only by the lesser anchors. But all activity had ground to a halt as more of the crew gathered around Verity and Henry.

  A silent shadow fell over them. Verity looked up. It was Abednego. Her heart jumped into her mouth. Whose side was he on? Perhaps only his own. He made his way through his men, who melted away to let him past.

  Dressed in his embroidered coat and dark brown trousers, he stood there, towering over the two children. Seconds passed. ‘I ordered you to set sail,’ he said to his crew.

  ‘They’re stowaways, Cap’n,’ said one man uncertainly, thrown by their leader’s unexpected reaction.

  ‘You will leave them to me,’ said Abednego. There were a few disgruntled mutters, but he silenced them with one look. ‘Do you question me?’

  Not one of the men ventured a word more. Verity held her breath in suppressed hope.

  Suddenly the door to the cabin suite slammed open violently. ‘What is this commotion?’ shrieked a venomous voice. The crew looked up in alarm. The Mistress must have sensed the disturbance – like a spider detecting vibrations at the outermost reaches of its web. The old lady’s mood had clearly not improved. ‘I said I was to be notified,’ she barked.

  The crew leaped into action, immediately busying themselves with their tasks.

  Miranda kept pace with her benefactress. ‘Would you like me to hold the baby for you?’ she asked, keenly aware of how important it was right now to remain in the Mistress’s good graces. ‘It must be very tiring for you.’

  The Mistress was in no mood to be charmed by anyone, but the crying brat was doing nothing for her nerves. She shoved the tiny bundle towards Miranda, who held the infant warily at arm’s length.

  The old lady had reached Abednego now. It took her just a second to absorb the scene and come to the correct assessment.

  ‘You,’ she shrieked, turning to face him. ‘You gave the Gallant child the eye.’ Her disbelief was palpable. ‘After all I’ve done for you,’ she breathed, with an ice-cold draught of fury.

  Abednego turned to face her, steeling himself to do so without fear. He had been preparing for this moment since he first sat on the floor of the library in Wellow and saw his own life in the book. Nothing she could do to him now wo
uld be any worse than the damage she’d already wreaked. He pulled the cherished peg doll from his pocket as witness.

  ‘You killed Abigail,’ he said. ‘You killed my sister. You didn’t save me. You took me because I was useful and killed her because she was not.’

  The Mistress of the Storm was – for once – slightly taken aback. ‘I—’ she started.

  ‘You made it an Original Story: fated to happen over and over again. It was in the book, your book.’

  The Mistress stood there staring at Abednego: the one man who had shown unswerving loyalty to her all these years was fighting back. ‘Where did you find it?’ she spat. ‘How did you get a copy?’

  Abednego ignored her. ‘You must not take this child,’ he said. ‘No more stealing children. No more killing children.’ A single tear rolled down his noble face.

  The Mistress’s temper was rising. She was not used to insubordination and it did not appeal to her now. ‘I asked where you found the book,’ she demanded. ‘Who told you?’

  The dark giant watched her carefully but said nothing.

  His Mistress snapped. Her fury at this act of defiance was incandescent. ‘Who – told – you?’ she hissed. A frozen wind threaded around him like a snake. ‘I am still your Mistress, boy,’ she added, leaning in a threatening manner towards the straight-backed and stony-faced Abednego.

  ‘I do not owe you any further allegiance,’ he said. ‘You lost that when I discovered the truth.’ As if to demonstrate this, he went over to a locker. Lifting the lid, he revealed the hiding place of an extremely surprised and rather sheepish-looking man in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform with very shiny polished buttons.

  ‘Mr Cutgrass,’ gasped Verity, and Henry gawped openly.

  Jasper stepped out of his secret cubbyhole. He was carrying a custom-made square bag on his shoulder. He stared at the assembled crowd. Even he could see that this was going to cramp his plans for stowing away. That, he reflected, was the problem with mysterious visitors such as Abednego. You never knew what they were going to do next.

  ‘A customs man?’ roared the old lady. ‘A – customs – man?’

  It was too much for her. She could no longer control her emotions, and no longer wished to. It was time to revert to her natural form.

  With a deep breath and an exhalation that reeked of decay, she allowed her transformation to take place. The air was rent in two and she was replaced in one hot, dusty blast of fury by a scarcely human creature. Still shrouded in robes, the figure paused, head bent over. The assembled group stood watching silently, fearfully, as it looked up to reveal itself fully.

  All the soft tissues of the face were gone; in their place was only blackened and papery skin from which all moisture had been removed: you could clearly see the skull beneath. The cuffs and edges of the clothing offered small glimpses of bones that were similarly mummified. The breath issuing from the monster was hoarse and ragged. A gritty wind swirled around it.

  Verity gasped, instantly recognizing in the creature the angry features of her grandmother.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The crew stepped back a little, well aware that such a change did not bode well.

  ‘Enough of this defiance,’ said the cowled figure in a grating, hollow voice. ‘It is time …’

  Verity shuddered.

  Most people, when faced with the natural form of the Mistress, collapsed in terror. But not Jasper Cutgrass. To think that the Mistress of the Storm really existed, just as Abednego had explained … he reflected. It was astonishing.

  Henry was stunned. So the book had been right. All the terrible things this woman … creature … had done – they’d killed her soul, piece by piece.

  ‘She’s damaged her soul so severely, she’s scarcely alive,’ whispered Verity.

  The creature laughed – a scraping, jarring sound that set the teeth on edge. Verity stared at the atrophied figure. Even though it had scarcely any features left, she recognized that look of scorn.

  ‘So convenient,’ rasped the Mistress, glancing at the tiny bundle in Miranda’s arms. ‘I can both prevent Rafe’s Pledge to destroy me and restore my youthfulness.’

  Verity stiffened. The hairs on her arms prickled. What was her macabre enemy planning? Her baby sister moved a swaddled limb and snuffled.

  ‘She is your mother’s third daughter,’ said the Mistress. ‘Surely, little bookworm, that must mean something to you …’

  Verity looked at her in horror. ‘…but this time she chose to tell a tale of terrifying cruelty,’ she said, reciting the words from memory.

  As she continued, the Mistress of the Storm began to say the words with her: ‘…of how each would be sacrificed. That they would die, so she might have longer life. And from that day on it was a bitter blessing to bear a third daughter.’

  ‘You’re going to drink her blood to rejuvenate yourself,’ Verity realized, aghast.

  The Mistress tilted her head in a self-satisfied smirk, unable to resist the opportunity to gloat. ‘Poor Rafe,’ she said. ‘So clever usually, but I don’t think he intended the story to end like this.’

  Verity reeled. Somewhere amidst the fear it occurred to her that she should try to keep her enemy talking. ‘How could you know it would be a girl,’ she asked, ‘before she was born? Boys are no good to you.’

  The Mistress stared triumphantly at her. ‘I could hear it,’ she announced. ‘I am the Keeper of the Wind.’

  Verity’s mind started to race. ‘That’s why you couldn’t kill me until now,’ she realized. ‘Because if you did, she wouldn’t be the third daughter … but you must have wanted to.’

  The Mistress glared at her. ‘Oh, I did,’ she snapped. ‘What an irritation you have been to me, with your books … and insolence. But it has been worth the wait. Now I can revive myself, and then kill you to make sure Rafe’s story never comes about.’

  ‘And you think we’re just going to stand around and let you get on with it?’ demanded Henry angrily.

  The Mistress laughed. Extending a withered finger, she beckoned towards a cabin door. With a clatter it swung open to reveal Verity’s father. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. The man Verity had once known as the very essence of composure stood before her with bloodshot eyes and scarecrow hair. His head bobbed and jerked sporadically. He didn’t appear to recognize them at all.

  Behind him he was dragging a large sack. As he untied it, Verity gasped in horror. In it was her sister Poppy, gagged and bound. Even from this distance Verity could see that she was bruised and trembling with fear. Her heart turned over.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Henry, outraged.

  Spinning back round, Verity glared at the merciless creature. ‘How could you hurt her like this?’ she demanded. ‘And what have you done to my father?’

  ‘Being tormented by the wind can drive even the strongest of men to insanity,’ the Mistress said smugly.

  Verity gasped: so Martha had been right. ‘You’ve been controlling him …’

  ‘A heady combination of desert and polar breezes.’ The Mistress chuckled at her own cruel ingenuity.

  ‘Well, no more,’ said Verity angrily. She knew exactly what to do. Scrabbling in her pocket, she found the eye of the Storm and opened it. Her father looked up from his stupor. He seemed confused. Verity ran towards him and closed his limp fingers over the wooden ball. It was as if a mist had cleared from his eyes. Focusing on his daughter for the first time in months, Tom Gallant gazed in shock at her, and then at his surroundings.

  ‘You won’t do this to him any longer,’ insisted Verity, tears running down her face.

  The Mistress stared calmly at her. ‘That is your choice,’ she said. ‘It can only protect one of you. Not both.’

  Verity swivelled round, brushing a tear from her cheek. ‘Do what you like,’ she snapped. But as she spoke the words, a peculiar sensation enveloped her. A baking hot wind was whipping around her. At the same time tiny cold darts of a freezing
draught pricked her skin. Her vision blurred and then re-formed. She felt sick and disorientated, maddened and hideously uncomfortable. Was this what Father had endured these past few months? Verity couldn’t imagine how he had borne it.

  ‘That which gave you life shall destroy you – that’s what Rafe pledged,’ screeched the Mistress. ‘My blood will turn against yours. How dare he? I gave him everything he sought and that was my repayment?’

  ‘You killed his daughter,’ said Verity, struggling to get the words out but determined to say them. ‘My aunt.’

  ‘She was an annoyance,’ said the Mistress dismissively. ‘You remind me of her a great deal. His blood …’ She sniffed. ‘Well, if there is none of his bloodline left at all, that will be the safest thing for me.’

  Verity’s head throbbed. The torment was overwhelming, making every thought an effort; the tiny spikes of cold grew increasingly agonizing. But it was Abednego who responded by grabbing the bag from Jasper’s shoulder. In a second he had removed its contents.

  ‘He found the Storm Bringer,’ he said, holding aloft the glass globe.

  Jasper was outraged. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘That is the property of the Revenue.’

  ‘You broke many rules when you charmed this for Barbarous Usage,’ said Abednego angrily. ‘But now it will be your undoing.’

  The crew of the Storm leaped away from their captain. Some were standing by the rail, as if preparing to throw themselves into the sea. They might not have seen it in a long time but they knew what the Storm Bringer was and what it could do.

  ‘You don’t have the nerve.’ The Mistress tilted her desiccated head in defiance. ‘Use it, and it will kill everyone.’

  ‘It will destroy only you,’ said Abednego, raising his hand to shake the mysterious glass globe. The crew took another step back. ‘It is part of you; you are part of it. If you collide, both will disappear.’

  The Mistress fixed Abednego with her terrifying gaze. ‘You should be sure that it will work, boy. If I live, I shall not rest until I have punished you.’