‘Impressive,’ Horace whistled. ‘Your mum really knew her stuff.’
‘Knows her stuff,’ Whisker corrected him. ‘I haven’t given up on her yet …’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Horace apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to imply –’
‘Forget it,’ Whisker said, hurriedly dropping the subject.
Horace hovered awkwardly near the window, scratching at the paintwork with his hook. Whisker stared into the distance, imagining where his mother was now. On an island … in a cabin … lying at the bottom of the ocean …
Neither rat spoke.
‘Look,’ Horace said, breaking the tense silence, ‘I can’t claim to know what you’re going through, and I’m sure to put my hook in my mouth again before this is all over, but, for what it’s worth, I’m right behind you every stumbling step of the way.’
Ruby pulled away from her window. ‘Stumbling, limping, you name it. I’m with you, too.’
‘Thanks,’ Whisker said, moved by their sincerity. ‘I know it sounds clichéd, but I couldn’t do any of this without you.’
He looked fondly through the cabin door to the newest member of the team, Chatterbeak. The parrot’s head was bent low and his pale eyes were locked on the rough water ahead. He had one yellow sleeve wrapped around the tiller, while he held on for dear life with the other. The intensifying wind swirled in wild circles, battering him from every direction.
Whisker’s joy evaporated in an instant when the yellow hood of the fisherman’s jacket suddenly filled with air and blew backwards off Chatterbeak’s head.
It only took Chatterbeak a moment to wrench the hood back over his lime-green feathers, but the damage was already done.
Directly behind him, two dozen dark shapes ascended into the sky above Falcon Island. Panic stricken, Whisker jerked the spyglass to his eye and focused on the ascending birds. They were flying in a V formation, aimed straight for the Ice Maiden.
Through the spyglass, he could see the slate-grey tips of their wings and the white of their underparts, banded with thin black lines. Their yellow feet were pulled flat against their long tails as they flew with rapid, choppy wing beats through the air. Beneath their large yellow-rimmed eyes, their pale cheeks bore the distinctive dark facial markings of peregrine falcons.
As Whisker continued to stare, Horace pushed his way to the entrance of the cabin.
‘Ratbeard save us!’ he gasped, sweeping his hook across the long line of birds. ‘I thought they hunted in pairs, not dozens.’
Whisker lowered the spyglass. ‘They do hunt in pairs, Horace. But this isn’t a hunting party, it’s an entire attack squadron.’
A Flock of Falcons
Realising he only had minutes until the falcons were in striking range, Whisker grabbed the nearest safety flare and threw it to Ruby.
‘Find a box of matches and fire on my command,’ he instructed.
‘Aye,’ she said, scooping up several more of the red projectiles. ‘They won’t know what hit them.’
As Ruby fossicked around for a box of matches, Whisker turned to Horace with his next instruction. ‘I want the tiller roped into position to maintain our course and Chatterbeak inside this cabin, immediately. He doesn’t stand a chance out there.’
Horace gave him a one-hook salute and scampered off with a rope. Whisker wasted no time in gathering up an entire armful of flares.
It was only when he uncovered a small starboard window from beneath the line of rockets that he realised the true danger they were in. While he had been staring through the port side windows, monitoring the island and the western sky, he had no knowledge of what was happening through the obscured windows to the east.
Peering through a starboard window now, he finally saw what the wind had conjured up. A storm cloud of catastrophic proportions was hurtling towards them. It towered high into the air like a monstrous mushroom, its anvil-shaped head stretching wide over the lake. Huge bolts of lightning flashed from within its black heart, but only a muffled rumble reached Whisker’s ears.
Chatterbeak burst into the cabin, a look of pure terror written across his face. Horace was right behind him, his eyes as wide as hail stones. He rushed over to Whisker and rapped on the window with his hook.
‘There’s a cumulo-we’re-in-big-big-trouble cloud out there!’ he cried.
For once Ruby didn’t correct him.
‘Hail?’ she asked, limping towards the window.
Chatterbeak flapped his jacket-covered wings. ‘No green, no hail!’
‘He’s right,’ Ruby said, staring at the cloud. ‘Green means hail and that cloud has more of a brown tinge – like a snow cloud.’
‘Of course,’ Whisker cried. ‘Snow deadens sound. That would explain why we couldn’t hear the thunder earlier.’
‘Snow?’ Horace said, confused. ‘But isn’t that a whopping big thunderstorm?’
‘Yes,’ Whisker said, ‘but the cloud isn’t filled with rain or hail. It’s filled with snow – thundersnow!’
Horace almost impaled himself on a flare. ‘Shiver me shipwrecks! Did you just say Thunderclaw? How did that crazy crab get up here?’
‘Not Thunderclaw,’ Whisker exclaimed. ‘Thundersnow – a thunderstorm but with snow.’
‘Oh, right,’ Horace muttered, finally understanding. ‘Well that’s a splendid piece of news. If those falcons don’t tear us to shreds, we’ll be electrocuted in a blizzard instead.’ He pointed through the doorway to the approaching birds. ‘Any last words?’
‘I’ve got three,’ Ruby said, striking a match, ‘Bye, bye birdies!’ With a reckless grin, she lit three fuses and hobbled onto the deck.
‘That’s one way to go down in a blaze of glory!’ Horace exclaimed, perking up at the sight of the flames. ‘Come on. We’d better not let her have all the fun!’ He placed four lit flares into the curve of his hook and bounded after her.
‘Stay here, Chatterbeak,’ Whisker said to the trembling parrot. ‘I need you to be our ammunitions bird. Keep those flares coming, no matter what. Five minutes should be all we need. After that, we’re at the mercy of the storm.’
Clutching an armful of flares, he rushed out to join his companions.
The scene from the deck was even more terrifying than it had been from the cabin. The southern sky was filled with birds, their shrill cries piercing the tense air. Wings beating rapidly, they maintained their deadly formation. Whisker counted thirty feathered beasts before turning his attention to the latest threat.
The storm dominated the entire eastern sky, growing larger and stronger as it thundered towards the small boat. It billowed and twisted, contorting itself into new shapes while sending jagged forks of lightning crashing to the ground. The storm brought a gale-force wind. It whipped up the waves as it raced over the surface of the lake, threatening to tear the sail from its fastenings.
Whisker knew there was far worse to come.
There was a loud WHOOMPH as the first of Ruby’s flares launched into the air. Propelled by a small explosion, it rocketed upwards towards the clouds. With a sharp BANG the flare ignited and an intense blast of red light lit up the darkening sky. As the glowing flare began its slow descent, Ruby’s second and third flares exploded in unison.
At the sight of the surprise ground assault, the falcons’ attack formation disintegrated into a rabble of squawking beaks and floundering wings. Horace’s four flares added further chaos to the sky and for a moment it appeared that the birds had been foiled.
Temporarily stunned by the lights and explosions, the leading birds quickly regained their senses and called their troops back into line.
‘They’re not giving up!’ Horace shouted, grabbing another two flares from Whisker.
‘Wait until the birds are in range,’ Ruby implored. ‘We can’t afford to waste any more shots.’
‘And risk being plucked off the deck?’ Horace shouted. ‘No way! If they’re in range, we’re in range.’ He struck a match. The small flame immediately blew out in the bill
owing wind. ‘Oh, this is hopeless!’
Whisker took one look at the long wooden sticks attached to the flares and made a decision. He’d seen enough fireworks displays at the circus to know how to put on a good show without being in the firing line.
‘Everyone back in the cabin,’ he ordered.
‘But we just got out here,’ Horace said, struggling with another match.
‘Don’t argue!’ Ruby hissed. ‘When Whisker comes up with a plan, you do exactly what you’re told.’ She bustled Horace into the cabin before he could protest. Remaining on the deck herself, she turned to Whisker. ‘You do have a plan, don’t you?’ she said.
‘That depends …’ Whisker said, glancing down at his armful of flares. ‘How quickly can you punch a line of holes in the deck?’
‘Quicker than you can fill them?’ Ruby said, drawing her scissor swords.
‘Good,’ Whisker said. ‘Make the holes close together and right at the entrance to the cabin.’
‘Easy,’ Ruby said, raising her weapons.
While Ruby stabbed the deck boards with the tips of her swords, Whisker followed behind her, wedging the thin sticks and fuses of the flares into the holes. He gave every second flare a nudge or a pull so the red projectiles pointed out at different angles.
‘Hurry!’ Horace shouted, waving his hook in warning. ‘The falcons are about to dive.’
Whisker glanced up to see the leading birds tucking in their wings and directing their bodies downwards.
‘Smash out the cabin windows,’ he shouted to Horace, ‘and fire at will.’
Ruby finished her last hole and rushed inside to join Horace. With the sound of breaking glass in his ears, Whisker continued to fill the holes with flares, his tail wrapped around a matchstick in readiness.
The shrill cries of the birds were all around him. He could see them dropping like meteors out of the corner of his eye. Head down, he refused to budge until the last hole was filled.
Leaping back behind the defensive wall of flares, he struck the match. In the sheltered confines of the entranceway the flame stayed alive just long enough for him to light the first fuse. In a shower of sparks it began to burn. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a second fuse igniting along the closely-packed line before everything descended into chaos.
The first bird arrived with a rush of wind, almost snatching Whisker from the boat. Whisker fell backwards and lay flattened against the deck as the bird snapped its beak viciously. It hovered above him, its wings flapping rapidly, sparks reflecting in its jet-black eyes. Whisker prayed the thin line of flares would be enough to protect him.
VROOSH! The first flare exploded upwards and the bird wheeled to its left, narrowly escaping the path of the projectile. Whisker scrambled deeper into the cabin as the entire squadron of falcons attacked in a blur of grey-and-white feathers.
They swooped, slashed and savaged the Ice Maiden, gouging the hull like the boat was their prey. Red flares rocketed upwards through shattered windows. Shouts and squawks rang out.
A mighty falcon slammed against the roof of the boat, its sharp beak puncturing a hole in the ceiling. A moment later a second bird arrived, slashing at the wood with its talons. Black beaks and yellow claws tore through the roof like it was paper. Protected from the rats’ line of fire, the birds began to peel back the panelling, hoping to get to the creatures inside. Clambering on top of an upturned bucket, Ruby thrust her scissor swords through the holes and sent them fluttering into the air.
Another bird dive-bombed the sail, flying to within claw’s-reach of the white fabric before one of Whisker’s flares clipped its wing. The falcon spiralled out of control, knocking one of its feathered companions off the starboard bulwark.
The next attackers swooped towards the unprotected prow of the boat, hoping for an easy way in. They landed on the bowsprit, only to discover Horace staring at them through an open window with a hook-full of flares. A rapid succession of shots drove the birds back quicker than they had arrived.
The falcons came thick and fast. No sooner had the rats scared off one of the vicious hunters, than another arrived to take its place. Corralled in the smoky cabin, Whisker knew they would run out of flares long before the falcons gave up the fight.
He looked through the starboard window to see the centre of the storm crossing the eastern shore of the lake. Beneath it, a blurry white shaft extended from the clouds to the ground, engulfing everything in its path.
Thundersnow, he gasped, and it’s a total whiteout. Looking further to the north, he realised that the stony shoreline of Cloud Mountain was still miles way. We’ll be lucky to make it before the storm hits …
A dark shadow crossed Whisker’s vision, bringing him back to the present. He watched as a falcon dodged one of Horace’s flares and circled in to land at the stern of the boat.
Flare in arms, Whisker pulled away from the window and rushed into the centre of the cabin to get a clearer view of the deck.
Beyond the line of sticks that once held his flares, he could see the bird perched on the top of the tiller, pecking at the thin rope with its beak.
Horrified, Whisker snatched up the closest box of matches and lit the flare in his paws.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Get away from there.’
The bird ignored him and continued gnawing at the rope.
Whisker hurried to the entrance of the cabin, his flare aimed directly at the bird. ‘I’m warning you.’
The bird let out a loud KAK, KAK, KAK and rose into the air. At the same time, the boat lurked to its port side and Whisker was thrown against the entrance wall. As he crumpled to the floor, his flare exploded out of his paws, skidding along the deck.
He raised his head and looked up. In the smoky red glow of the flare, he could see the rope lying in pieces on the deck and the rudder swinging freely behind it. With nothing to steer the boat, the wind had taken control and was turning the small craft westwards.
The only thing west is water, Whisker told himself, the last place we want to be in a lightning storm.
Forced to take action, he hauled himself off the ground and pushed his way through the line of sticks.
‘Cover me,’ he coughed to his companions, ‘I’ve got a boat to steer!’
Crawling on his paws and knees, he moved cautiously across the slippery deck, hoping the smoke from the flare would conceal his presence from above. Waves of icy-cold water splashed over him, drenching his trousers and coat. He could hear the birds circling above him, but saw nothing but smoke.
The shrill cries grew fainter and fainter as he continued.
He reached the tiller and began heaving the wooden shaft back into position. Working against the wind was a slow process, but finally the boat began to right its course. As it swung back to its original bearing, Whisker noticed the flare had gone out and the last of the smoke was being swept away in the wind.
It was only then that Whisker realised the terrible danger he was in. The falcons hadn’t soared off into the heavens or retreated back to their island – they were right above him, silently circling their prey.
Whisker looked up to see the largest falcon diving towards him, beak open, talons outstretched.
Gripping the anchor, Whisker stood rooted to the spot, knowing could never draw his sword in time.
The bird was almost upon him, majestic and terrifying. He could see every feather on its pale underside, every coloured marking: grey, black, yellow … red.
Red was everywhere – a brilliant explosion of light.
And suddenly, the bird was no longer moving forward. It was hurtling backwards, the tip of its left wing a mass of flames.
Burning, smoking and screeching, it plunged into the closest wave. A moment later it splashed to the surface, spraying water from its wings as it rose feebly into the air. With a squawk of defeat, it turned its tail to the boat and headed in the direction of the island.
Whisker waited for the next attacking bird to descend but the only thing that fell fro
m the sky was snow. The birds were gone and the storm had arrived.
Thundersnow
Ruby and Horace stood side-by-side at the entrance to the cabin. Each held a smoking stick in their paws.
‘It’s a stroke of luck my flare hit that falcon,’ Horace said, brushing a snowflake off his coat.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ruby huffed, hurling her stick into the face of the storm. ‘Your flare went wide. My shot did the damage.’
‘Rotten pies to your shot,’ Horace scoffed. ‘All you hit was a wave.’
Chatterbeak appeared behind the two rats, clutching a third smoking stick in his beak.
‘Coooeee!’ he whistled excitedly, dropping the stick on the deck. ‘Did you see that? The very last flare and look what I hit: the King of the Falcons.’
Ruby rolled her eye. ‘Not you, too.’
Watching from the stern of the boat, Whisker didn’t care which one of his squabbling teammates shot the decisive flare. He was alive, and he’d happily give them all a badge of honour for their efforts.
‘We’ll call it a team victory and leave it at that!’ he shouted over the roar of the wind. ‘Right now, we’ve got a storm to survive.’
He glanced across at the besieged cabin, taking note of its shattered windows, hole-ridden roof and claw-marked walls.
‘Let’s hope the old girl holds out,’ he muttered.
Miraculously, the sail had escaped the attack with no serious damage and he waved his paw in its direction, issuing a command to his crew. ‘I want you to secure the sail and tie down anything that moves – including yourselves.’ He picked up a length of rope from the deck and began strapping his right arm to the tiller. ‘And make your knots quick-release in case the boat goes under.’
‘Aye, aye, Capt’n Whisker!’ Horace cried. ‘Shipwreck knots it is.’
While Horace, Ruby and Chatterbeak began working on the sail, Whisker took a compass bearing of their destination: the glacial stream on the northern shore of Lake Azure. North-north-west, he read.
With the last light fading, Whisker knew he would be forced to rely heavily on the small navigation instrument to lead them safely to shore.
Child of the Cloud Page 6
