The Tornado Chasers

by Ross Montgomery

  ‘Sorry, Miss Pewlish,’ I said. ‘I startled.’

  ‘Yes, Owen, I can see that,’ she said. ‘But unfortunately, bushes aren’t meant to startle. They’re supposed to stand still, or rustle menacingly if need be.’ She sighed. ‘Why don’t you just … stick with Callum for now?’

  I nodded, my face burning, and scurried offstage to a chorus of sniggers. My face was of course burning both from embarrassment and the remains of the stinging nettles from the day before. I sat down on a bench at the back of the hall and tried to hide from everyone.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ said a familiar voice behind me. ‘Martin Price jumps out wearing a glittery sequined leotard, and you almost wet yourself. Is there anything you’re not frightened of?’

  I turned around angrily. Callum was leaning back on a plastic chair behind me, ripping up his script. Despite attacking me he had still turned up at my front door that morning and walked with me to school, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I wasn’t frightened,’ I said. ‘I startled. It’s my condition.’

  Callum snorted. ‘You looked pretty frightened to me.’

  I almost answered back, but quickly held my tongue. I had been almost a whole minute late home for curfew after yesterday’s incident. My parents took one look at my stinging nettle burns and scabbed knees, and had accused me of trying to climb trees. They had sent me straight to bed. I didn’t argue with them – I was too upset and humiliated to tell the truth. But I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  ‘Well … whatever,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

  ‘Right,’ cried Miss Pewlish at the front of the stage, ‘let’s try again, shall we?’

  [With great dramatic flourish and extremely loud crashing of cymbals, enter TORNADO.]

  TORNADO: Behold! I am the tornado, the greatest of all natural disasters. You are powerless against me!

  [Enter THOMAS BARROW to triumphant music.]

  THOMAS BARROW: That’s where you’re wrong, Tornado!

  VILLAGER 1: Egad! ’Tis Thomas Barrow, local genius.

  THOMAS BARROW: Villagers! We careful and cautious types have lived in danger for too long. To that I say – no more!

  VILLAGERS: [all together] Hear! Hear!

  THOMAS BARROW: That’s why I’ve decided to make a new village – one safe from storms and dangers. Somewhere over there, I think. It shall be named … BARROW. Who’s with me?

  VILLAGERS: [all together] Huzzah!

  [VILLAGERS carry THOMAS BARROW offstage on their shoulders, cheering.]

  ‘Of course,’ said a voice about a centimetre from my left ear, ‘that’s not really how it happened.’

  I startled, and swung round. A girl had sat down on the bench beside me. She was wearing a hat with a piece of card in the brim that said ‘PRESS’, and had a massive camera around her neck.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said. ‘How what happened?’

  ‘That’s not how the village was made,’ said the girl, pointing at the play. ‘There was no Thomas Barrow. Miss Pewlish made him up. I looked it all up in the library. Want to know the truth? Barrow was only built about ten years ago!’

  I frowned, and looked at the stage. ‘But … why would Miss Pewlish lie about it?’

  The girl sighed. ‘Well, I did ask her that. She said never to call her house at the weekend again. Also she said she can say whatever she flipping well wants because it’s her flipping play and she has an “Artistic Licence”.’

  The girl shook her head in admiration. ‘Sounds great, doesn’t it? An “Artistic Licence”. I have to get myself one of those.’

  The girl looked jealously at the play unfolding onstage. I cleared my throat. Here it was: my first proper chance to make a friend.

  ‘I like your costume,’ I said.

  The girl glanced at me. ‘Hmm? What?’

  ‘Your costume,’ I said, pointing at her hat. ‘Are you a reporter in the play or something?’

  She frowned, confused. ‘I’m not in the play.’

  I paused.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  The girl stuck out her hand. ‘Ceri Dewbridge – Head Reporter for the Dewbridge Gazette. Miss Pewlish said I can’t be in the play because I’m too much of a “liability”, whatever that means. I’m doing a report on it instead.’ She cackled. ‘That’ll show her! My damning exposé’s going to blow this whole place wide open when I deliver it at Presentation Day tomorrow.’

  My stomach dropped.

  ‘Presentation Day,’ I muttered. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Hmm? What?’ she said. ‘Oh, yeah, presentations. They’re really scary. You have to get up in front of the whole class and talk about something really important for two whole minutes. And it has to be good, otherwise you get a bad mark. What’s yours going to be on … whatever-your-name-is?’

  I held out my hand. ‘Owen.’

  Ceri’s eyes suddenly widened.

  ‘Hang on – Owen! The new boy! The one who fainted yesterday in class! I didn’t recognise you, all dressed up like a bush.’

  I blushed. ‘I didn’t faint. It was an involuntary reac—’

  But Ceri had already started taking photos of me.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘I can see the headline now: New Boy Thrown Offstage For Fainting After Hours Of Gruelling Rehearsals. It’ll be the story of the month – the year, even! I might actually sell a newspaper!’ She held up her notepad. ‘Mind if I ask you a few questions for my report?’

  I was about to say no, but then I realised that Ceri was the first person to be nice to me since I’d arrived. I shrugged.

  ‘Er … sure,’ I said. ‘Ask away.’

  Ceri beamed. ‘Great! So, tell me, Owen: what’s your role now you’ve been humiliatingly demoted to backstage duties?’

  I blinked. ‘I’m not sure. I think I’m working with Callum.’

  ‘I don’t think Callum has a job,’ said Ceri. I looked behind me. Callum was chewing his script into spitballs and throwing them at the lighting crew.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ I muttered.

  Ceri suddenly got to her feet, with some difficulty.

  ‘Come with me!’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to the rest of the backstage team. They’ll find you something to do.’

  I made to stand up, and stopped. Both of Ceri’s legs were strapped up with black braces, from ankle to hips.

  ‘What are those for?’ I asked.

  Ceri looked at me. ‘Hmm? What?’

  ‘Those things on your legs,’ I said.

  Ceri shrugged. ‘Nothing. They help me walk.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Do you have to wear them all the time? They don’t hurt or get in the way or anything?’

  Ceri frowned. ‘What, you mean like your stupid helmet?’

  She pointed at it. I struggled to think of what to say.

  ‘Er … I guess so,’ I said.

  Ceri smiled. ‘No. They don’t get in the way. Ever. Shall we?’

  With that she turned around and marched off across the hall. I followed without protest. Ceri seemed pretty weird, but at least she was talking to me. And even better, she wasn’t Callum.

  ‘Hey, Orlaith – Orlaith!’ she said, waving her arms frantically at a nearby table.

  A girl behind it snapped round irritably. I recognised her – it was the one who had talked to me in class the day before. She had tied her hair up neatly on top of her head, or as neatly as she could manage. Even in the dark it looked pretty impossible to control. She still wasn’t smiling.

  ‘What,’ she said irritably.

  Ceri pointed at me. ‘Orlaith, this is Owen. He’s a victim of Miss Pewlish’s abusive performing arts regime. Mind if he sits with you?’

  Orlaith sighed.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, though I sensed she didn’t really mean it. ‘So long as he keeps quiet. And doesn’t touch the props.’

  She nodded at the rows of complex contraptions covering every inch of the tabletop in front of her. Ceri immediately picked one up and t
urned it round in her hands, to Orlaith’s obvious irritation.

  ‘Orlaith made all these herself,’ Ceri explained, holding out the prop. ‘Aren’t they amazing? She doesn’t smile or make jokes or be friendly or anything, but she’s probably a genius. She’s even off to the Valley Academy next year!’

  Orlaith glowered. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ beamed Ceri.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Is that … a stormtrap?’

  I pointed at the prop in Ceri’s hand. It was a metal box with a red light on top – just like the one on top of the clock tower. It had obviously been built and painted by hand. Orlaith snatched it back.

  ‘Of course it’s a stormtrap,’ she muttered. ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I said. ‘Just like the real thing. What’s it for?’

  Orlaith pointed to the stage. A group of scientists were now standing in a line, each one holding one of Orlaith’s handmade stormtraps. The boy playing the tornado swirled around them in a dramatic tinselly circles.

  [NARRATOR steps forward.]

  NARRATOR: Barrow quickly became famous as the safest village in the valleys! Soon it was even using high-tech science-y know-how to protect itself from dreaded tornado attacks.

  [SCIENTISTS place the stormtraps on the ground and switch them on. The light bulbs on top flash and emit a high-pitched beeping sound. TORNADO suddenly stops dead in the middle of the stage.]

  TORNADO: What? Nooooo! I’m being pushed away by these infernal machines!

  SCIENTIST 1: The stormtraps are a success! Let’s put one in every village!

  [SCIENTISTS high-five each other. TORNADO sulks offstage.]

  NARRATOR: And so Barrow gave the valleys its greatest invention: the stormtrap, capable of protecting villages from tornadoes. Most villages foolishly thought they’d be safe with just one! But not the people of Barrow.

  [VILLAGERS place the stormtraps in a great circle on stage.]

  NARRATOR: They surrounded their entire valley with a ring of stormtraps, protecting the village on every side. Now there was no way a tornado could ever harm them. [Darkly] Perhaps, if the other villages had protected their valleys properly, the terrible tragedy that was to come might never have happened …

  I suddenly noticed that someone else was stood beside me in the dark. I turned to face him, and startled. It was the boy who had been waiting with Orlaith the day before. His enormous frame was now covered from head to toe in ragged brown fur, and a giant stuffed bear’s head was placed over his own. He gazed down at me, his eyes blinking nervously between the bear’s open jaws. Ceri leant forwards.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I almost forgot to introduce you. Owen, this is Murderous Pe—’

  Orlaith swung round on her chair, fixing Ceri with a warning glare. Ceri stumbled.

  ‘Er … sorry, I mean Big Pete. He’s Orlaith’s Home-Time Partner.’

  I held out my hand. ‘Hello, Pete.’

  Pete looked at me cautiously, and then extended a paw. He silently wrapped his entire enormous hand around mine.

  ‘Hi,’ he whispered.

  Orlaith leant forwards between us, separating our hands jealously.

  ‘Pete, that was your cue. Go get ready in the wings.’

  Pete spun round obediently and scurried to the back of the stage. I watched him go, his enormous feet padding softly into the darkness of the hall.

  ‘Wow!’ I gulped. ‘He’s huge.’

  Ceri nodded. ‘Yep. Just wait till you see what he does in the play! It’s incredible. But, er … make sure you don’t get on his bad side.’

  I looked at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ceri stole a glance to see if Orlaith could hear her, and leant in to whisper.

  ‘Pete’s got a bit of a violent reputation,’ she explained. ‘That’s why everyone calls him Murderous Pete. Last year he punched a kid so hard his brain came out of his ears. Oh, and once he made a boy in the year above eat his own arms.’

  I gasped. ‘You saw him do that?’

  Ceri stared at me blankly. ‘Er … well no, I didn’t. But I do have some very good sources.’

  ‘Shhh!’ Orlaith hissed angrily. Onstage the play had reached its dramatic climax.

  NARRATOR: … Until one terrible night, ten years ago, a tornado landed beside a careless village called High Folly …

  [TORNADO is swirling throughout the valleys, causing havoc. VILLAGERS OF HIGH FOLLY spill left, right and centre.]

  FOLLY VILLAGER 1: Oh no! Our village’s single stormtrap isn’t strong enough to protect us from the tornado!

  FOLLY VILLAGER 2: If only we’d followed Barrow’s shining example and installed several stormtraps instead of belittling their suggestions!

  [TORNADO smashes houses, statues, trees. A sign reading ‘BEAR SANCTUARY’ is lowered from the rafters.]

  FOLLY VILLAGER 1: Oh no! The tornado’s heading straight for our poorly constructed Bear Sanctuary!

  [TORNADO smashes the sign, accompanied by another terrifying crash of cymbals.]

  FOLLY VILLAGER 1: Look! The bears are escaping!

  [From the darkness at the back of the stage, a single BEAR steps forwards into the light.]

  BEAR: Roooooooooar.

  [BEAR suddenly grabs FOLLY VILLAGER 1 and lifts him straight off the ground, holding him above his head as if he was as light as a pillow. Everyone screams.]

  NARRATOR: What’s he doing?!

  FOLLY VILLAGER 1: Help! Miss Pewlish! Make him put me down, quick!

  BEAR: [fumbling] S-sorry.

  [BEAR drops FOLLY VILLAGER 1 and scurries offstage. FOLLY VILLAGERS follow him from a distance, pointing and whispering.]

  NARRATOR: Since that terrible day ten years ago, the people of the valleys were struck with yet another threat – loose bears roaming the valleys at night, hunting disobedient and careless children still out on the streets. They are a constant reminder that we must always try to be safe and follow the Storm Laws – even when there are no tornadoes.

  [THOMAS BARROW steps onstage.]

  THOMAS BARROW: So remember, children – the Storm Laws are here to protect you! Always make sure you stay indoors during curfew!

  [Lights suddenly dim.]

  And if you don’t want to follow the Storm Laws? Well – there’s always plenty of room at the County Detention Centre.

  [A child walks onstage, dressed as a MAN. The whole room falls silent. The MAN wears a black suit, and has a shaved head, and wears black glasses that hide his eyes completely. He stands in the centre of the stage and does not move. The lights dim and dim, until all you can see is the MAN and nothing else, except the nametag that is clipped to his chest. It reads: THE WARDEN.]

  THE WARDEN: And then you’re mine.

  The bell rang. Without another word everyone tore off their costumes and started racing out the doors. Ceri tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Thanks for the interview, Owen,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘See you tomorrow!’

  She marched off across the hall. Orlaith glanced up from behind the table.

  ‘Er … aren’t you forgetting something, Ceri?’

  Ceri turned round. ‘Hmm? What?’

  Orlaith sighed, and pointed to the corner. There, on a stool, sat a small girl eating a pencil case. She looked like a miniature version of Ceri, with white-blonde hair poking out beneath a woolly hat. Ceri rolled her eyes.

  ‘Flossie!’ said Ceri. ‘There you are! Come on – it’s home time.’

  Ceri grabbed the little girl’s hand and dragged her out the exit. I turned round to say goodbye to Orlaith, but once again she had already disappeared. In her place stood Callum, glaring down at me. I startled helplessly.

  ‘Ready?’ he muttered gruffly.

  I nodded, shivering the twitch out of my arms. Callum looked me up and down, and smirked.

  ‘Better get you home quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t want you to faint again, do we?’

  He chuckled, and strode out the door. I wat
ched him go, my blood boiling, but I swallowed my anger carefully. No matter what Callum said, I couldn’t let anything go wrong on the walk home today. If he attacked me and I was late for curfew for the second day in a row, and my parents thought it was because I was trying to climb trees again … well, who knows how much trouble I’d be in then?

  I scampered after him. Surely nothing bad would happen this time. Not two days in a row. Not if I didn’t give him a reason. No one’s that much of a bully – right?

  5

  Why I Broke the Storm Laws

  Callum and I sat at the back of the classroom in silence. Every now and then one of the other children would turn around and look at me. They might have been looking at the mysterious shoebox I held in my lap, but judging by the look on their faces they were looking at the red stinging nettle welts that now covered me from head to toe.

  ‘Can’t believe you actually did a presentation,’ Callum muttered.

  I didn’t reply. After yesterday’s disastrous walk home, I had no desire to talk to Callum any more. I was going to ignore him, just like everyone else. We only had a few weeks left of being Home-Time Partners – I wasn’t going to waste any of it trying to reason with him. You can’t reason with a brick wall. Especially one that keeps pushing you into stinging nettles.

  The bell rang. Miss Pewlish locked the door behind her and faced the class.

  ‘Presentation Day!’ she cried shrilly. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ She riffled around on her desk. ‘Let’s see, who’s first on the list – Brenner, Callum …’

  ‘Haven’t done it!’ Callum chimed.