by Paul Stewart
The raintasters and cloudwatchers around him looked at the thin, tousle-haired boy with amusement.
‘Then again, at least we're not sub-acolytes,’ one of the windtouchers commented sniffily
‘Undertowner!’ said the other scornfully.
‘Sky above!’ a voice bellowed from the highest of the long tables, and all heads turned. It was Lud Squeamix and he was almost choking on his stew. ‘Who'd have thought it?’ he spluttered.
A flagon was dropped in surprise.
‘Upon my word,’ someone else exclaimed, ‘it is him.’
Every eye looked towards the highest long table. There, where the most prominent academics were eating, the Professor of Darkness was to be seen ushering the mysterious, wild-eyed individual to an empty seat.
The apprentices forgot all about the junior sub-acolyte in their midst.
‘I can't believe that's Twig,’ Cowlquape heard one of them say. ‘I mean, look at him!’
‘Like a crazy one,’ another agreed.
‘And he's meant to be the new Sub-Professor of Light!’ said a third. ‘I wouldn't fancy being his apprentice.’
‘Yeah,’ laughed the first apprentice raintaster. ‘Definitely a couple of raindrops short of a shower.’ And they all burst out laughing.
All, that is, except for Cowlquape. While the apprentices were too empty-headed to see anything beyond his outward appearance, Cowlquape looked again. There was something about the young sub-professor - a fierce intelligence ablaze in those bright, staring eyes. Perhaps Twig hadn't lost his mind at all, Cowlquape thought with a sudden jolt. Perhaps he had simply turned his gaze inwards.
Beneath the stew-pipe at last, he pulled the lever, taking care that none of the steaming tilder stew missed his bowl. He grabbed a hunk of oak-bread from the basket beneath the pipes, soggy from stew others had let fall, and pushed his way towards the mass of low stools that sprouted like mushrooms beneath the galleries. Looking up, he could see Twig clearly.
The newly appointed sub-professor was staring into mid-air, oblivious to his surroundings. Occasionally, prompted by the nudging elbow of the Professor of Darkness, he would start picking at his food like a bird. But only for a brief moment - and never long enough actually to eat anything.
As Cowlquape continued to watch the twitchy young individual - only a few years older than himself - he asked himself what horrors Twig must have endured when the Edgedancer received the full brunt of the mind storm. After all, if a passing rain cloud could lead to the cloddertrogs attacking each other, then what must it have done to the sky pirate captain who had seen his ship destroyed?
Just then, a blanket of blackest cloud swept in across the sky and plunged the refectory into darkness. The Professor of Darkness - for whom the sudden gloom was of particular interest - pulled a light-meter from the folds of his gown. Concentrating intently, he failed to notice his young sub-professor get up from his seat and make his way down the wooden steps.
‘Curious,’ muttered Cowlquape.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder almost knocking him off his stool. ‘Well, well, well,’ came a familiar mocking voice. ‘If it isn't our favourite little Undertowner!’
‘Vox!’ gasped Cowlquape, looking up into the arrogant face of the tall cloudwatcher apprentice.
‘I hear somebody hasn't been paying his fees,’ he said. ‘Tut, tut. That won't do at all.’
Cowlquape trembled. ‘Please!’ he begged. It's just that my father, he …’
‘Save it for the Professor of Cloudwatching, bark-worm!’ Vox's voice was hard, his grip vice-like on Cowlquape's shoulder.
Outside, a dismal angry drizzle began to fall. Rage at the unfairness of it all flared in Cowlquape's eyes. It wasn't his fault that his father had been killed!
‘Professor of Cloudwatching?’ he said. ‘Professor of Cloudwatching?’ His voice rose to a shout. Vox stared in amazement. ‘You can give this to your Professor of Cloudwatching in place of payment!’ And with that Cowlquape hurled the bowl of steaming stew into the tall apprentice's face.
‘Aaaarghl’ Vox shrieked, falling into a gaggle of mistsifters and sending bowls and stew flying everywhere.
Cowlquape took to his heels, ducking and dodging as he made for the door, and bowling a couple of indignant latecomers off their feet as he dashed from the refectory
It was even darker outside than it had been inside and, away from the noise of the refectory, far more forbidding. Purple-edged black clouds twisted and swirled overhead like bubbling wood-tar. The wind was sulphurous. And even though he could not know how the sense-sifters were glowing orange, Cowlquape felt an unfamiliar tumult of emotions within him: anger, exultation, and a nerve-tingling fear as chaotic and swirling as the weather around him.
Chicker-chacker-cheeeesh. Crimson lightning darted this way and that across the sky, and the thunder which followed crashed all round the floating city, shaking it to its very core.
Head spinning, Cowlquape set off for the refuge of the Great Library He kept to the shadows as he hurried silently across the greasy tiles. Around a corner, he halted. He looked back and forth. The coast was clear. From the guard turret to his right to the landing-stage far away on his left, the place was deserted.
As he set off again the sky lit up for a second time, and Cowlquape caught a sign of movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun round and squinted into the dim light. There was the young sub-professor. He was standing atop the stone balustrade of the landing-stage, legs apart, head up, arms outstretched and palms raised. All round him, the lightning cracked and splintered.
‘Twig!’ Cowlquape bellowed. He didn't know whether it was his own inner confusion or simply the madness of the weather that made him call out the professor's name. Could he really be going to jump? ‘Stop! Stop!’
His urgent cries were drowned out by a second rumble of thunder. Twig tottered on the edge of the balustrade, flapping his arms.
‘NO!’ Cowlquape yelled. He raced forwards, heart in his mouth, and seized the hem of Twig's waistcoat. ‘Ouch!’ he cried, as the hammelhorn fur turned instantly to sharp needles which pierced his skin. Droplets of blood welled up on his fingertips.
The lightning flashed again. The thunder rolled. And, as the wind grew stronger, a light sparkling rain began to shower down. All over Sanctaphrax, the mood changed to elation. Cheers echoed from the refectory. Cowlquape, gripped by a sudden feeling of intoxicating strength, grasped Twig's arm and pulled him off the balustrade. Twig fell to the ground.
‘Forgive me, Professor,’ Cowlquape whispered. ‘I thought you were going to jump.’
Twig stumbled to his feet. ‘You spoke?’ he said.
Cowlquape's jaw dropped. ‘You spoke!’ he said. ‘They said you were dumb …’
Twig frowned and touched his lips with his fingers. ‘I did,’ he whispered thoughtfully. He looked round, as if seeing for the first time where he was. ‘But… what am I doing here?’ he said. ‘And who are you?’
‘Cowlquape, Professor,’ came the reply. ‘Junior sub-acolyte, if it pleases you.’
‘Oh, it pleases me well enough,’ said Twig, amused by the young lad's formality. Then he frowned. ‘Did you say… Professor?’
‘I did,’ said Cowlquape, ‘although Sub-Professor would have been more accurate. You are the new Sub-Professor of Light - at least, if the rumours are to be believed.’
A look of bemusement passed over Twig's face. ‘This must be the Professor of Darkness's doing,’ he said.
‘He was the one who brought you to Sanctaphrax,’ said Cowlquape. ‘From the Stone Gardens, they say. He …’
‘The Stone Gardens,’ said Twig softly. ‘So I didn't imagine it.’ Looking lost and bewildered, he turned to Cowlquape. ‘And yet…’ He frowned with concentration. ‘Oh, why can't I remember … ?’ He scratched his head slowly. ‘It's as if I've been in a dream. I remember my crew, the voyage, entering the weather vortex and then … Nothing!’ He paused. ‘Until just now, when you obviously sto
pped me from throwing myself to my destruction.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you. What did you say your name was?’
‘Cowlquape,’ said Cowlquape, ‘and I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have saved you at all.’ He stared down at the ground disconsolately. ‘I should have joined you. I have nothing to live for!’
‘Come, come,’ said the young professor gently. He laid his hand on Cowlquape's shoulder. ‘You can't mean that.’
’I do,’ said Cowlquape, hanging his head. ‘I'm an Undertowner. My father is dead and I have no fees to pay for my apprenticeship. When they find me, they'll throw me out of Sanctaphrax. What have I got to live for?’
Twig looked at the bookish young acolyte. ‘You saved me,’ he said simply. ‘I think I ought to repay the debt. You say I'm a Sub-Professor of Light.’
Cowlquape nodded.
‘In that case, I hereby appoint you as my apprentice, Cowlquip.’
‘Cowlquape,’ said Cowlquape excitedly. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Of course,’ said Twig, smiling. ‘I'll need a smart young apprentice to look out for me now that I've finally woken up. I've got a lot to do.’
‘I'll look out for you, professor,’ said Cowlquape. ‘You see if I don't.’
• CHAPTER SEVEN •
THE SHOOTING STAR CHART
Cowlquape strode out of the Great Library, brushing the dust from his fine new robes. The costly black material showed up every speck, and the fur trim seemed somewhat extravagant - but the clothes fitted splendidly. He clutched the ancient barkscrolls to his chest and hurried towards the School of Light and Darkness.
Turning into a narrow alley next to the Windtouchers’ Tower, he stopped. There, blocking his way, stood Vox, the cloudwatcher, his face pasty with woodsalve.
‘Alone at last,’ the tall apprentice snarled.
Two more cloudwatcher apprentices appeared behind Cowlquape. He was trapped.
‘I believe you and I have some unfinished business, barkworm,’ said Vox, producing a mean-looking cudgel from the folds of his gown. He swung it through the air, catching Cowlquape a glancing blow to the side of the head, and sending him sprawling.
‘Vox!’ he gasped. ‘You great big bully … Unnkhhl’
‘Where's your so-called professor now, Undertowner, eh?’ Vox sneered. ‘Where's brave Captain Twig, saviour of Sanctaphrax?’
‘Right here,’ said Twig, seizing Vox's upraised arm and twisting it neatly up behind his back.
‘Aaarghl’ yelled the apprentice, dropping the cudgel.
Twig shoved him away. ‘I believe my valued apprentice, Cowlquape, needs a hand,’ he said.
‘Y … yes, sir,’ stammered Vox, cowering before the young professor.
‘And dust off his robes while you're about it.’
Vox clumsily helped Cowlquape to his feet and brushed him down.
‘Now be on your way,’ said Twig. ‘And don't ever let me catch you bothering him again or you'll find yourself on a one-way basket trip to Undertown. Do I make myself understood?’
Vox nodded sullenly and sloped off. His friends had long since fled.
‘Thank you, Professor,’ gasped Cowlquape.
Twig smiled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he said. ‘Call me Twig.’
‘Yes, Prof … Twig,’ said Cowlquape.
‘And Cowlquape.’
‘Yes, Twig?’
‘You dropped this.’ The young professor handed the crumpled barkscrolls to his apprentice. ‘And don't get bark dust all over your nice new robes.’
‘No, Twig,’ said Cowlquape happily; and followed the Professor towards the School of Light and Darkness.
Twig's study was situated at the top of the west tower in the School of Light and Darkness. It was a small room, yet with its soft hanging armchairs and blazing stove, a comfortable and cosy place. The wall was lined with shelves brimming over with rows of leather-bound books, stacks of papers tied up with ribbons, and intricate light-orientated scientific apparatus. A furry layer of dust covered it all.
Twig watched Cowlquape as his young apprentice sat with his nose in a barkscroll, reading avidly in front of the open-doored stove that glowed with purple flames. It must be lufwood he's burning, Twig thought, and was once again taken back to his childhood with the woodtrolls, when he would sit on the tilder rug before the fire listening to Spelda - his adoptive mother - as she recounted her tales of the dark Deepwoods.
The lufwood logs gave off a lot of heat but, being buoyant when burned, they had a tendency to fly out when the door to the stove was open. Every so often, Cowlquape would look up and nudge back into the stove a blazing log which threatened to escape.
‘What's that you're reading?’ Twig didn't hide the boredom in his voice. It was plain to his young apprentice that Sanctaphrax, and the stuffy confines of the School of Light and Darkness in particular, stifled the young sky pirate captain.
‘An old barkscroll, Professor,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I found it in the Great Library - it's fascinating …’
‘Call me Twig,’ he said impatiently. Then, in a gentler voice, ‘I envy you, Cowlquape.’
‘Me, Twig? But why?’
‘You can pick up a barkscroll and be transported off to goodness knows where. I've watched you sit there for hours, poring over some scrap of bark, half eaten by woodmoths and barkworms, as if in a trance. You're a born academic, Cowlquape. Whilst I…’ He paused. ‘I'm a sky pirate!’
Twig climbed to his feet, crossed the stuffy study and flung open the window. Icy rain splashed down on his upturned face and trickled down the back of his neck. ‘That is where I should be,’ he said, pointing beyond Sanctaphrax. ‘Out there. Sailing the skies as captain of a sky pirate ship. Like my father and his father before him. It's in the blood, Cowlquape - and I miss it so.’
Cowlquape put down the barkscroll and caught an escaping lufwood log with the fire tongs.
‘Oh, Cowlquape,’ Twig continued, his gaze still fixed on the endless expanse of sky outside. ‘You have never heard the wind singing in the rigging, or seen the world laid out below you like a map, or felt the rushing air in your hair as you sail across the sky If you had, you would know what misery it is to be stuck in this poky study. I feel like a bird whose wings have been clipped.’
‘I love Sanctaphrax,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I love its towers, its walkways; the Great Library - and this poky study. But I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.’ He looked down, suddenly embarrassed. ‘And I'd follow you anywhere, even…’ He gestured to the open window. ‘Even out there, into open sky’
Twig flinched. ‘There were others who followed me there,’ he replied quietly.
‘Your crew?’ said Cowlquape.
‘My crew,’ Twig whispered sadly. He could see them all now, the diverse yet loyal bunch he had assembled: the flat-head goblin, the slaughterer, the oakelf, the waterwaif, the Stone Pilot, the banderbear and the bespectacled quartermaster. They had believed in him, followed him into open sky - and had perished there. ‘I don't know how, but I killed them all, Cowlquape. You see how dangerous it can be putting your trust in me.’
‘Are you sure they're dead?’ said Cowlquape.
‘Of course they're dead,’ said Twig irritably. ‘How could they possibly have survived?’
‘You did,’ said Cowlquape. Twig fell still. ‘I mean, did you actually see what happened to them?’
‘See?’ Twig repeated. ‘I can't remember!’
‘Can you remember anything of that fateful voyage into open sky?’ he prompted.
Twig hung his head. ‘No,’ he admitted glumly.
‘Then how do you know they're dead?’ Cowlquape persisted. ‘How many were on board the Edgedancer when you set sail?’
‘Eight, including myself,’ said Twig. ‘But…’
‘The Professor of Darkness said eight shooting stars were seen flying through the sky,’ Cowlquape blurted out.
Twig frowned. ‘Cowlquape, what are you saying?’
‘
I've said too much.’ Cowlquape stumbled over the words. ‘The professor told me not to talk to you about your former life. He said that it would only upset you …’
‘Upset me? Of course it upsets me!’ Twig stormed. ‘If I thought for an instant that any of them were still alive, I'd leave this place right now and find them, whatever it took.’
Cowlquape nodded. ‘I think that's what the professor is afraid of,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Forget I spoke, Twig.’
‘Forget!’ Twig turned on him. ‘I can't forget! Eight shooting stars, you say. One for each member of the Edgedancer. Cowlquape, think now, did the professor say where these shooting stars landed?’
‘Well, I … I mean, I think …’
‘I can answer that,’ came a voice. The Professor of Darkness stood in the study doorway. ‘I should have known I couldn't make a professor out of you, Twig, my boy,’ he said sadly. ‘You're just like your father, a born adventurer - and like him, you're probably destined to be lost for ever in open sky’
Twig seized the professor's hand. ‘My father?’ he said. ‘You know what happened to my father?’
The professor shook his head. ‘Only that he was swept away in the Great Storm many weeks ago, and hasn't been seen since,’ He looked deep into Twig's troubled eyes. ‘Did you … ? Out there … ?’
‘I don't know,’ Twig said unhappily. ‘I can't remember.’ He grasped the professor's hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. ‘Professor, you must help me find my crew. As their captain, I made a promise never to abandon them, come what may. If there is even the slightest chance that any of them are alive, then it is a promise I must keep.’
‘But Twig,’ said the professor. ‘Even if …’
‘And maybe,’ said Twig, cutting through the professor's objections, ‘just maybe, my crew might help me retrieve my memory’ He pulled away from the professor and looked into his eyes. ‘For who knows what I might have forgotten - out there, in open sky. Something useful perhaps? To you, Professor. To Sanctaphrax.’
The professor nodded uneasily. Twig had a point. Having sailed so far into open sky he had experienced what no-one before had ever experienced; what the aged academic himself had only dreamed of doing - namely, entering the source of the weather itself. What was more, Twig had survived and returned to tell the tale. For the moment, of course, his mind was shut tight, but if it could be unlocked …