The Spin Page 3

  It was square on its feet now, shaking out its leathery wings and steadying itself. It was taller than a normal horse, its head towering above Stormy’s on a strong neck. Wings grew from the creature’s shoulders like some strange blue plant’s stem might curve and grow from the soil, then billowed out into beautiful pale-blue fan shapes with a fine tracery of darker sinews and veins. It turned large sapphire eyes on him and puffed smoke from its nostrils in short, angry snorts; spitfyres’ distant ancestors were dragons.

  Stormy inched a step nearer.

  The spitfyre tossed its head, flicking its dark blue mane from side to side, warning him to stay back. A tremor ran over its skin, rippling the short blue hair of its coat, making it shimmer violet, turquoise and midnight-blue. Warily, it pawed the ground with a blue hoof. Stormy drew closer, like iron filings to a magnet. He had read about spitfyres, had seen pictures of them, dreamed of them, but nothing had prepared him for the beauty or the wonder of the creature in the flesh.

  He held out his hand.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. ‘I’m your friend.’ He saw the expression soften in the spitfyre’s eyes; it was listening and understanding. He could only use the same words he might with old Sponge or an ordinary horse.

  ‘Good boy. Good boy. I just want to stroke you. Good chap. Well done.’

  The winged horse lifted its head and continued to stare at him.

  ‘You are so majestic,’ Stormy said. ‘You are wonderful, wonderful . . .’

  Now he was almost close enough to reach out and put his hand on its neck. He raised his arm slowly, feeling the heat that oozed out from the animal as if it had a furnace inside it. ‘You’re fantastic,’ he whispered. ‘I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ He reached towards the spitfyre and it lowered its head towards him, puffing out smoke gently. ‘I just want to –’

  ‘Bluey, stop! Hey!’

  The winged horse jerked its head up and lurched backwards with a harsh throaty neigh. Stormy spun round. The sky-rider was scrambling to his feet, and tugging off his black helmet and goggles. Only it wasn’t a he; it was a she. As the helmet came off, a long plait of dark hair, woven with white and red ribbon, snaked over her shoulder. She rubbed at her bruised head. She was tall and strong, and crossing the gap between them in three quick strides she jabbed a finger at Stormy.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch him, orphan boy! Bluey! Down!’ she roared. ‘Down!’

  The glimmer of friendliness died in the spitfyre’s eyes. It belched out a cloud of black smoke and tossed its head, rattling and clinking the metal bridle.

  ‘Down!’ the sky-rider shouted.

  The spitfyre folded its front legs and sank down onto the earth so that the girl could step up from a rock onto its back.

  ‘What exactly did you think you were you doing, boy?’

  She was the most perfect girl he’d ever seen – not that he’d seen very many – with dark glittering eyes, high round cheeks and a narrow nose which tilted up at the end. She was older and taller than him; and, he knew instantly, cleverer and smarter.

  ‘I like spitfyres,’ he said with a shrug.

  Her dark eyes flashed furiously. ‘What do you know of them? You’re nothing. You can’t touch a spitfyre!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was just –’

  ‘You better just nothing. What are you, anyway? One of Brittel’s orphans?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stormy lied straight away, immediately raising his status. ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, tell him from me he’d better watch out,’ she said. ‘Tell him to take care.’

  ‘I will,’ said Stormy. ‘I will do that.’

  ‘And no need to tell anyone else you saw us. All right?’ She flashed a smile at him, showing very white and small teeth. ‘Our secret?’ She was putting on her helmet and goggles now, collecting up her reins. ‘Can you keep a secret, orphan boy?’

  He nodded, ready to lie down and die for her.

  ‘When I speak to Brittel, who shall I say the message is from?’ he called out as she turned her spitfyre towards the edge of the slope. She looked back over her shoulder.

  ‘Araminta!’

  She whispered something to her spitfyre, and they leapt over the mountain edge and seconds later were soaring away out of sight.

  Stormy’s grin stretched across his face. He made his way back to the kitchen in a dream. A spitfyre; he’d nearly touched a real, living and breathing, spitfyre. He almost had. One day, I’ll ride one, he told himself. I will. I will. Maybe with that wonderful Araminta. He was so distracted that he almost tripped over Sponge in the kitchen yard.

  The dog was standing perfectly still, watching something, its legs planted like four stiff pillars. He didn’t budge when Stormy banged into him.

  ‘Sponge? Did you follow me? What is it, old thing?’

  Sponge was frozen, staring unblinking towards a shadowy patch by the kitchen door.

  As Stormy drew closer, he saw what had glued Sponge to the spot – a large orange and black snake. A Zinger! Stormy knew that if the dog so much as moved a hair he was dead. Zingers were fast and there was no antidote for their poisonous bite.

  Stormy approached carefully, hoping that Sponge wouldn’t turn round. He didn’t. He was mesmerised. The Zinger rose up and was weaving from side to side, ready to strike. Quickly Stormy reached for a garden spade. The snake saw him and turned its beady eyes on him. Its forked tongue flashed out and flickered.

  ‘Yaah!’ Stormy shouted, raising the spade. Instantly the snake dropped to the ground and shot towards him, a blur of colour, a zigzag like lightning slithering over the ground. ‘Go, Sponge! Run!’ He slashed out with the spade. The snake’s darting mouth jabbed up at him but he leapt out of its way. As he jumped, he smacked the spade on the snake’s head, stunning it. It bounced, flipping over like a skipping rope. Stormy spun round and hit it. And hit it. It didn’t move again.

  Sponge nuzzled his cold nose into Stormy’s waiting hand and wagged his tail, then plodded towards the kitchen door, butting it open with his head calmly as if he confronted deadly snakes every day.

  Otto was standing by the window. He must have seen what happened, but he gave no sign that he had. He just stroked the dog’s head silently, and slipped him a morsel of food.

  Stormy took up his place at the kitchen table again, his heart still booming and his breath jagged and fast. No one noticed the speckle of burns on his clothes and since almost no one except him went to the compost heap, he knew he could tidy that up later. Snakes and spitfyres all in one day! He imagined telling Tex about the Zinger, how he’d laugh. But he wouldn’t tell him about the girl and the spitfyres. He wanted to keep the close encounter all to himself – it was too good to share.

  ‘You!’ Brittel had crept up behind him. ‘I need sixty blue snails boiled up and winkled out of their shells. Now.’

  It was one of the worst jobs and should have been done by the spitfyre staff, but Stormy had no choice. Snails it was. He started straight away. At least it was for the spitfyres. And at least he’d get a chance to give Brittel the message from that girl.

  When he’d finished the snails he took them along the dark corridor to the spitfyre kitchen. Dotty, a boy with several large moles on his face, opened the door.

  ‘What is it, Stormy? You look like you’ve wet your knickers.’

  Stormy ignored him. ‘I’ve got the snails for Brittel,’ he said, showing Dotty the pail full of squiggles.

  ‘Give ’em here, then.’ Dotty held out a fat hand for them.

  ‘I’ve got to give them straight to Brittel,’ Stormy said. ‘Right into his hands.’

  ‘Sez who?’

  ‘I have to,’ Stormy said. ‘I have a very important message for him.’

  ‘Huh. Tell it me, can’t you?’

  ‘No. It’s private.’

  ‘Oh, hark at you, skivvy. Private? Get in, then.’ He pushed Stormy inside roughly.

  Stormy intended to take in every detail while he had t
his rare opportunity to look round the magical kitchen. Blue smoke swirled from the wood burning in the great range and green sparks flew up into the wide chimney. The long table was covered in dishes and copper basins, glass jars and thick brown glass bottles. Along one wall there were rows of tiny shelves divided into small compartments and each contained minuscule glass bottles of coloured powders. It was like a paint palette – emerald-green, grass-green, lime-green, leaf-green. Blues. Reds. Every colour you could imagine all neatly arranged and labelled with their contents. Stormy longed to know what they were all for.

  ‘Stormy to see you, boss,’ Dotty said, leading Stormy over to where Brittel was weighing black shining grains, like seeds, in a pair of brass scales. It looked like magic to Stormy.

  ‘Sez he’s gotta message,’ Dotty said.

  Brittel looked at Stormy with loathing. ‘And the message is?’

  Stormy glanced at Dotty meaningfully.

  ‘Off you go,’ Brittel told Dotty.

  ‘I have a message for you from Araminta,’ Stormy said, lowering his voice.

  Brittel dropped the ladle with a clatter and everyone in the kitchen turned round and stared at him.

  ‘Back to your work!’ Brittel shouted. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he added, gripping Stormy’s arm tightly. ‘What are you doing with a message from her?’ he hissed.

  Stormy felt his cheeks redden. He was going about this all wrong.

  ‘I, she, I . . . She said just that you should take care,’ he said. ‘She said you should watch out.’

  ‘Is this some sort of a wind-up? You playing a trick on me?’ Brittel hissed at him. ‘Where would you meet Araminta!’

  ‘She said it was secret and not to tell anyone, but she was riding on a spitfyre and it crashed. By the compost heap.’

  Brittel released his grip and pushed Stormy aside. ‘All right. Very well. Forget you saw her; forget you heard what she said. Forget everything. Now go away. Get out of my kitchen!’

  As if Stormy could forget seeing the spitfyres and seeing Araminta! Was he crazy? Still, he could keep a secret and he would.

  That night Stormy settled down with his two books, both presents for good work over the years: Spitfyre History and Spitfyre Myth and Legend.

  Reading about the Silver Sword Race was a favourite passage. It was held only every ten years. The Director of the Academy hid the special sword at a secret location that was only revealed on the day of the race. The names of the sky-riders who’d brought back the swords . . . Rowena Heath, Gregor Erskine, Wesley Grant – and ‘Stormy’ added in pencil – went into the Winners’ Gallery.

  Now Stormy also had the circus flyer to read. ‘Dazzling feats of bravery!’ ‘Daredevil death-defying acts!’ He tried to put himself in dark-haired Renaldo’s place, tried to be him. The circus man glowed with pride; he looked as if any moment he would burst out of his skin with the joy of being the person he was. Beside him was a vast gold flying horse with glittery wings spread wide and flames shooting out of its mouth. Oh, if only!

  Stormy slipped the handbill under his pillow, the images still burning on the back of his eyes.

  6

  Luck

  A few days later, Mrs Cathcart called the skivvies together. Otto stood beside her, puffed up importantly like whisked eggwhite.

  ‘I have an exciting announcement,’ she said. ‘Silence. Look this way. All eyes on me.’ She waved a sheet of paper at them.

  The boys were pretty certain that whatever the housekeeper had to say would not be very interesting.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  The boys shuffled guiltily.

  ‘The Academy has a vacancy. Quite suddenly. A boy is needed to work in the servery and the stables,’ Mrs Cathcart said, glancing at her piece of paper.

  A groan went round the room, a groan that Mrs Cathcart – who had a fairytale view of spitfyres – interpreted as excitement. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘it is thrilling. You all want a chance to work up there, don’t you?’

  ‘She’s bonkers,’ Tex whispered to Stormy. ‘I certainly don’t!’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ a freckled boy called John said.

  ‘More fun than here,’ said another.

  ‘Don’t pick me,’ one said. ‘Pleeeeze.’

  Going up to the Academy would mean leaving friends and only a few boys wanted to get any closer to a fire-breathing winged horse than they had to.

  ‘Boys who go up there never come back,’ Tex whispered again. ‘Is she mad?’

  One of the favourite topics for late-night horror stories was what happened to the missing orphans? Were they used as targets in firing practice? Were they thrown off the highest point of the castle so the birds could eat them? Did the Director eat them, sliced, on toast? Or were they boiled alive to make spitfyre fuel?

  Nobody knew the answer – just that the boys didn’t come back.

  The boys’ names were put into a wooden box for Mrs Cathcart to pick one. ‘We must be fair,’ she said. ‘I know what a privilege it is to go up and work in the Academy and I would not like to put any boy above another.’

  ‘Some privilege to have your hair singed off and skin toasted black,’ Purbeck whispered, rubbing his big chin with glee.

  The room had gone very still. Most boys were praying it would not be his name on the slip of paper she chose.

  Stormy felt sick.

  ‘Go on, Mrs Cathcart,’ Otto said, ‘let’s not waste time. Work to be done in the kitchen.’

  The housekeeper pushed her fat arm into the box and shuffled her hand about. Stormy pictured her sausage fingers flipping through the bits of paper like a fish swimming through weeds. He urged her fingers to find his name. He urged them to touch the word: S-T-O-R-M-Y. That wasn’t hard, was it? Keep going, fingers. Keep going. You’ll find it. You have to. Can’t you read?

  ‘Good luck,’ Tex whispered to him.

  Stormy nodded. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t bear the thought of another boy getting this chance, and worst of all, getting this chance and not wanting it.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mrs Cathcart beamed, waving a slip of paper. ‘Here’s the lucky boy!’

  She unfolded the paper and read out a name. Stormy couldn’t hear anything because the noise in his ears was so tremendous; spitfyres were flying around his head, he could hear the shushing sound of their leathery wings and see the smoke puffing from their nostrils and –

  ‘Stormy!’

  All eyes turned to him. He stared back. Why were they looking at him?

  Tex nudged him. ‘You. It is you, fungus face!’

  ‘Me what? Me!’ It came out as a shout and the other boys tittered.

  ‘Step forward, Stormy,’ Otto shouted. ‘Are you deaf?’

  Tex and Purbeck gave him a push that catapulted him towards Mrs Cathcart. He got in front of her and Otto somehow, and stood there like a fence post.

  ‘Congratulations, Stormy,’ Mrs Cathcart said.

  Stormy did nothing, said nothing. He saw that Mrs Cathcart had lipstick on her teeth. Her left eye was wandering towards the window. It was suddenly hot.

  Otto was staring at him hard. He looked as if someone had just opened the oven on his rising batter pudding.

  ‘You’ll do us proud, I’m sure,’ Mrs Cathcart said.

  ‘Ma’am,’ was all he could manage.

  Never before had he ever had any luck. Never. For the first time ever, he felt hopeful.

  Later Mrs Cathcart squeezed Stormy into some Academy work clothes. A blue shirt with a button-up collar, the likes of which he had never worn before, a small dark blue jacket and trousers that stopped short of his matchstick ankles. It was all tight and constricting. The collar choked him: it reminded him of the grubbin’s hands around his throat and he wondered how the poor man was now and if he were still a prisoner.

  ‘There! My, you do look a picture, don’t you?’ Mrs Cathcart said, standing back and admiring her handiwork. ‘I never noticed till now, Stormy, but you’ve lovely blue eyes
. Irish ancestry, I expect. Don’t worry, you’ll be a fine young man when you manage to grow a bit, you really will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stormy said, who hadn’t been worried about growing until that moment. The twinkle in Mrs Cathcart’s eye was making him feel uneasy.

  ‘You lucky boy! Aren’t you so lucky?’ She squeezed his cheek between her fingers.

  He nodded. Yes. Yes. He felt like the Christmas goose they’d trussed up with a length of string. He could barely breathe, but he didn’t care. He was going up Dragon Mountain. He was going to be in the Academy.

  Stormy went to say goodbye to Otto.

  ‘And who do you suppose is going to look after my compost heap?’ Otto said, lightly beating a wooden spoon against Stormy’s head.

  ‘I am sorry, Otto, really I am, I –’

  ‘Sorry?’ He stopped his tapping. ‘But this is what you wanted, wanted most, isn’t it?’ Otto asked him, strangely, weirdly concerned. ‘Tell me it’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stormy said, a little perplexed.

  ‘I thought so. I knew so. More even than moving you up to Brittel’s kitchen? Tell me I was right about that?’

  Surprised he should care, Stormy nodded.

  ‘Well, you won’t need me to do that now. You’ll be up at the Academy, close to spitfyres and their food.’ Otto stared at Stormy, shaking his head slowly. ‘Sponge will miss you. You take care up there, now.’

  Why was Otto being so nice? It made no sense. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’ll take care – are you quite all right, Otto?’

  ‘Of course I am! Now, you be careful. Remember that Otto isn’t so very far away . . . And remember, there’ll always be a place here for someone that can manage a compost heap like you, Stormy.’

  Stormy grinned. His home wasn’t the kitchen; he wasn’t a skivvy. He was going to the Academy!

  7

  Academy

  Stormy lingered just beyond the kitchen walls, savouring this odd sensation of aloneness. He turned away from the lane that led down to the village of Stollen, away from the kitchen buildings and, for the first time, headed up the stony path that spiralled towards the towering turrets of the Academy castle.