by Sarah Driver
I’m dragged through the door and up a spiral stairway cut straight into the rock. Then I’m pushed forwards and made to climb higher, higher, higher into the mountain. ‘Please, tell them my brother gets shaking fits,’ I gasp in the thin air.
Hot breath burns my frozen ear. ‘Were you given leave to speak, sea-creeper?’
‘Please! Just tell them!’ It gets even harder to breathe, cos now the thin air stinks of rotting eggs, musty pelts and damp. ‘We made a potion of violet root but I didn’t get the dose right and—’ I’m shoved into a crooked stone passageway, my words oofed away into the bitter cold.
Grubby moon-lamps are strung along the ceiling, dimly showing how the passage weaves around a bend and out of sight. Moonsprites wail inside the smeared glass, making the lamps flare.
Letoutletouttrappedtoolong! Grrrrrrfizzlefearhelphelphelp!
Our footsteps ring against the stone. The cold stabs up through the soles of my boots. I stumble, and the tip of a spear digs into my back, jolting me forwards. The anguished cries of strangers echo from inside the walls.
Soon it feels like we’ve walked so far into the mountain that we’re gonna fall off the other side of the world. ‘Where’ve you taken my crew?’ I wheeze.
My captors don’t answer. I look back and glimpse a long, serious face and lips purple with cold, but then the spear-tip finds me again and I stagger forwards.
We reach a thick wooden door. One of the riders wrenches at it, scrabbling with her fingernails, but the door is stuck. ‘The ice has sealed this one shut, too.’
In the end she gets it open by lighting a torch and heating the lock, while I twist and kick in the other’s vice-grip.
Then I’m jabbed hard in the back and sent sprawling into a freezing cloud of sour air.
I stumble to my knees on a damp, grimy floor. The door slams with an echoing clunk, like the sealing of a tomb.
I throw my weight against the door. Sickness has robbed my voice, so when I try to scream, nothing comes. What if Sparrow shakes, or they see his lightning? What if they use his powers like the mystiks did? And – I fight the thought, but it moulds tightly over me. What if he dies?
I’m trembling, and my head swirls like there’s a storm of fog and snow blundering through my brain. This weren’t meant to happen. We should’ve reached Whale-Jaw Rock by now.
On the other side of the door, boots scrape against the frost, moving away.
I cough and rasp another empty breath. The sickness that started as we climbed higher in the sky squeezes my belly in an iron grip. I’m frighted for Thaw too, but I ent got the strength to yell for her.
I stare around the murky stone turret. There’s a straw mattress on the floor and one thin, grime-streaked blanket. Through a star-shaped hole at the top of the wall, the wind screeches in a thousand broken voices.
It hits me, in a sickening drum-boom – I ent going anywhere. I can’t look for the Opals. A picture of Da floats before my eyes – on the storm-deck, watching the sun skim the waves, his eyes smile-crinkled.
I reach into my pocket and curl my fingers around the little wooden carving of the Huntress that I made for Da so long ago. Some time between leaving our ship and disappearing he added sails to the carving, and wrote a message on them – a message to tell me what I’ve got to do. And to tell me he’ll find me when he can. The message gifted me heart-strength. And when Sparrow’s song turned it to a magyk map that showed me the Opals hope sparked in my veins. But the map couldn’t magyk the thing me and Sparrow really wanted – Da.
And now I ent even got the message. Stag’s thieved it, just like he thieved Grandma’s life and my ship.
My ship. When I close my eyes, I can almost smell her joyous stinks of fish and birch-smoke and tar.
‘Tell me we can get some rest, now?’ pleads a thin voice, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s throbbing from frosty metal pipes that criss-cross the wall.
‘We can’t,’ answers another. ‘There are trials.’
I scuttle closer to the pipes to listen.
‘I am bone-weary,’ gasps the first. ‘Have you any food?’
‘No.’ There’s a scrape and a clank and the voices are almost drowned out.
A sob rattles the pipe. ‘My sisters are not growing as they should – I need to give them more.’
‘Shhh! The Protector provides . . .’
Their voices fade. I shiver. Then a distant wolf howl pierces the night and I drop into a crouch, staring up at the hole in the wall.
My heart beats twice before the turret quakes. I cover my head with my arms and feel the explosion in my chest as the mountain spews more ice-bombs. What is going on in this Sky realm?
As the sound dies away, the Opal’s wild power sparks through my cloak pocket. I pull it free and wince as it singes my eyebrows. I can feel the gem longing for its kin, the same way I long for mine. The ache in my chest turns to a painful yearning for my Tribe. It feels like the stitching of my life has come apart at the seams, so I hardly know who I am any more.
I press my back to the wall and slide down until I’m huddled on the ice-glittered floor of the turret, arms wrapped around my knees, chin pressed into the bloody rips in my breeches.
If I don’t get the Opals back together and find the golden crown, the sea’s gonna freeze solid.
My thoughts fly and scatter and drift. I wonder if these draggle-riders – or the Wilderwitches – know the legend of the Storm-Opal Crown. I can’t believe there are two Sky-Tribes left! I remember seeing the ruined Sky Path at the Tribe meet on Dread’s Eve, lost to vines and thorns. Being in a hidden Sky realm would make for a tale my Tribe would love to guzzle. It’s like I’m living one of Grandma’s stories. But all I can feel is the heaviness of my quest.
My eyes cross and numbness steals over me. I feel my spirit pushing the edges of my skin.
I’m slipping into a dream-dance and the Opal in my hand seems to breathe, turning clammy and blubbery, just like the last time.
But the rotten stink of this place creeps into my nose, making me gag. I grind my teeth together, dig my nails into my palms. The sky-sickness hits harder and I retch bile onto the straw, then fall to the grubby mattress and drag measly lungfuls of air through my bleeding lips. Then I sneeze, spattering my wrist with black snot.
There’s a tangled wail in the sky outside. I look up, sickness spins the room and I have to get my head down again. A sorrowful beast-chatter floats into the turret.
Wherenowwherenow? Home, lost, Thaw heart-sore for her two-legs!
My sea-hawk’s searching for me! Thaw, I croak uselessly, feeling a growl of fury build in my belly. Heart-sad homesickness carves up and out of my throat, spilling hot tears onto my cheeks. The Huntress slices through my thoughts, calling me home. My ship plucks at me until an invisible cord, connects us.
Man gone, hisses a sudden beast-chatter, somewhere in the pipes. Flew low, low, low. Scribble scrap scribble scrap.
But the beast-chatter rolls off my skin like a bead of water, as the Opal grows fluttering gills and my spirit squeezes through layers of bone, muscle and skin, then sneaks through the hole in the wall, into the raging night.
I’m a ragged ghoul in the wind, high above the mountain fortress. The Opal pulses against me. Even though I’ve left my body behind I feel a smile tugging for the fun of flight.
I’m struggling to dive towards the sea when the wind catches me in its jaws. I’m flung across the edge of the mountain. The world falls away.
Across the mountainsides below streak the gleaming dream-spirits of reindeer, mountain goats and wild horses.
Swirling storm-clouds gather and skinny lightning spears the sky. Stooped red trees paint the mountain like a river of old blood, where the leaves of autumn froze before they could fall.
I fly faster and finally through the smoky fog I glimpse the sea and the jagged icebergs. Another sliver of lightning slashes down and cracks into a berg, sending blocks of ice tumbling into the water.
; A coastline looms. I trace its craggy edges with glowing dream-fingers. Huge cauldrons of oil bubble on the cliff edges. I can sense my home in a rich dream-stink of tar and iron rivets. She’s pulling me closer, but where is she? The further I tumble the closer I get to a fleet of ships. My spirit pangs.
The Huntress is one of them.
I strain my spirit into the wind, wiggling like an eel, feeling a pull between my body and my ship. Panic jangles from me into the night air, sizzling a flurry of ghostly sparks. The air thickens with the grey, moaning spirits of whales and the cold vast depths of the sea flood into my mind; the depths that swallowed Grandma. I shrink back from the whale spirits, fighting the memory.
The ship’s anchored over the spot where the great warship from the Icy Marshes, Frog Witch, is said to have sunk ten moons ago. The sea is slicked with a thick cloak of ice that crunches as she tries to throw it off.
I drop through the sky, treading air like it’s water. Below, Stag stands on the storm-deck, bellowing at the crew. His voice stabs into my dream, making me growl. Polar dogs sprawl beneath the rail. Their chains clank as they twitch their muzzles to the sky and whine, spooked.
Thingthingthingnomarrow? chatters one.
Nofoodhungryhungrywhatit? Deadthinglurking! replies a pack-mate, snotcicles hanging from its snout.
Stag glances at the dogs. Their white clouds of breath puff into the air and his narrowed eyes follow them, until he’s looking right at the spot where I’m hovering, my dream-toes bathed in dog breath. My spirit flares, turning jagged and spiny with horror.
Can he see me?
But then he turns his attention back to the deck, and my spines of fright retract.
‘Heave!’ commands Stag. There’s a creaking of ropes and a strange squealing noise. Then a huge bone claw winches into the air, trembling like a held breath.
‘Shipwrecks mean merwraiths. And merwraiths mean riches.’ Cold mirth curls the edges of Stag’s voice.
Merwraiths? No. He can’t!
My nerves stretch tauter than a bowstring, but still I glide closer to the ship. Cos even with evil lurking, I can’t waste the chance to glimpse chief oarsman Bear.
The tar-blackened ropes that tether the dredging claw snake down in front of me. The crew lower the claw towards the sea. When the waves gulp it, dread bites me.
‘It’s reached the seabed!’ someone cries.
‘Hold steady!’
One of Da’s sayings fills my head. ‘Are we not all the gods’ little creatures?’ My sluggish dream-blood simmers. I’m voiceless, but I wish I could roar. I flutter towards the deck and the polar dogs tense, then riot, thrashing against their chains, gifting rough barks to the sky as they watch me shimmer.
The claw shudders from the sea, spitting a clatter of long, curved whale bones across the deck. I know I should look away. Terror squeezes my throat. I don’t want to watch.
But I have to.
Tangled on the claw’s bony barbs are three merwraiths, the scales of their long, drooping tails flashing bright. One’s got a tail of rusty bronze; the others gleam storm-cloud grey. Sodden flame-red hair is plastered to their heads, and pearly globs of fish eggs web their fingers and lace up their arms, chests and throats. My mind flits to Rattlebones, the ancient Sea-Tribe captain who turned to merwraith long ago. My guiding ancestor. These wraiths are our kin. Once they proudly strode their decks, fire-crackle in their hearts.
The merwraiths’ eyes are glazed behind a foggy layer of film. But they’re awake, and they’re frighted.
I whimper, my voice trapped in the space between the worlds, ringing off the masts and round my brain. The horror turns to bony fingers that wring my belly until I gasp.
The merwraiths begin to wither. Their hair becomes seaweed, their fish eggs turn to strings of black slime that drip onto the deck. Only their scales stay bright. The crew snick their knives open.
Get away from them! I scream, but no one hears me ’cept the polar dogs. They howl, frenzied, until Stag blasts a gun into the air, forcing silence.
I flutter, tangled in the ropes, a ghost filled with heart-fury. The face of one of the merwraiths crumples and the eyes fall out – now plain grey seastones that roll about the deck. A shriek rips from her lips before she shrivels into a pile of weeds, slime and rocks, and only her gleaming scales remaining. Sobs rake my chest, and in the tiny gaps in between I sense another mourner. Bear, huddled at his oar, his tears turning to chips of ice on his cheeks.
Missing him and wanting to be in his arms carves my chest into a gaping hollow.
The merwraiths lie sprawled in a heap. Crew fall to their knees beside them and prise dark, rusted scales off with their blades, the two metals scritch-scraping.
Stag watches, smoking his pipe. Course he ent dirtying his own hands. My scorn pushes me towards him, until I’m hovering in the drifting fog by his side. He puffs out smoke rings, and I think of Da’s message. Does Stag have it still? I flex my dream-fingers, imagining grasping the message and pulling it back with me. Could it be possible?
I dip into his pockets, but I can’t feel anything and frustration coils around me like a tentacle.
A polar dog lunges at me, snapping starving jaws. Get back! snarls Stag in beast-chatter, kicking out at the dog.
I zoom away, making for Bear, but I’m caught in the wind, flung upwards, bashed against spangle-cold icebergs. A fright-tattered voice reaches me. ‘You are his weakness! You must help us!’
It sounds familiar. Knowing spreads through me. The voice belongs to one who has guided me.
Rattlebones!
Ancient blood sparks in my veins and I feel the link between us glowing bright and golden.
She’s the only captain I know who can show me the path, except this time she needs my help.
Help you how? I mouth, but I don’t know how to talk in a dance and the wind plucks my words away. Why? I try harder to force words out and finally they come, clumsy and thick. ‘Where are you?’
When the wind’s grip loosens I dive down through the air and skim out across the churning water. Above the sea I dip my fingers through a skin of ice, watching the surface like a looking glass.
A soft old face appears, wrinkled like the map of a long-ago life.
‘You’re safe!’ The words plink into the water.
‘Aye,’ says Rattlebones. ‘For this time.’
The word time sloshes strangely through my mind.
‘What’s happening to my home?’ I ask.
Her blind eyes stare into my marrow, and pictures begin to flash inside my head.
I see Grandma’s medsin-lab crushed to slivers of glass and splinters of wood. The armoury has swelled to twice its size, filled with unfamiliar weapons. The door to the Hoodwink where the sea-hawks nested has been wrenched off, leaving an empty socket in the mizzen-mast.
‘Evil prowls,’ whispers Rattlebones. ‘The false captain hunts whales and wraiths, making deals with greed. He seeks supporters among the lonely and the bitter, the desperate and the greedy. When he has used your ship he will break her apart. He wants to keep the Tribes at war, brew vicious battles and crown himself King.’
My spirit splinters apart and jolts back together. ‘What about Grandma Wren? Have you seen signs of her in the wraith-world?’
Heart-sadness floods Rattlebones’s voice. ‘None.’
Last hope drips from me into the water like spots of blood, and washes away.
‘There is a stillness where I try to sense her. But Little-Bones, where is your own life-blood? Why are you so long a ghost?’
She puts another picture in my head – my sleeping body, dusted with frost on the floor of the turret cell at Hackles. Then she fades – down, down, down into the depths – leaving me alone.
I fly fast as I can towards the aft-deck hatch, even though I can feel my dream-dance rubbing thin. I need to find Da’s message.
Before the hatch I reach a pulling point, where I feel like the cord between my spirit and my body is gonna s
nap. Maybe I’ve been a ghost too long, like Rattlebones said. Fright clangs through me and though I ent ready to give up I’m suddenly rushing through the night, terrorised, away from my ship, spirit-belly brushing against rock.
That’s when I see it – a shimmering spirit snagged on a tree root on the side of the mountain.
My dream-eyes widen ’til they feel like hollow pools. Another dream-dancer? I flit closer to it.
But this spirit is unrestful and it wails wretchedly into the wind. Every mote of my being prickles in shock. I’ve never seen another human spirit dancing free of its body. This one looks stuck. Its eyes snap onto me, huge black holes of loss. My heart is awash in darkness! it calls. It reaches out spindly-silver fingers and brushes my cheek.
I turn away but the fingers curl around my ankle. I twist to look behind and the spirit wrenches itself free from the tree root, then streaks past me. I soar quick quick quick towards the prison in the sky, where my body waits. Dimly I can hear my brother singing.
The lost spirit squeezes through the hole in the wall but I zip after it and grab a fistful of its scraggy hair. We struggle; a storm of force and feelings, slamming against each other. It thrashes away and then pings towards my body. The amber amulet of protection begins to glow in the hollow of my throat – it’s proper strange to see my own body from above. The spirit tries to pull the amulet over my head but I shove it away and my feet slip into my sleeping self and I wake up tasting blood. I’m on my back on the floor in the dark cell, shouting and cursing and crying with a voice strangled by the mountain.
My voice is the thing I could always make bigger and louder when I felt too small. Now the sky’s shrunk it.
When I’ve raked a breath the truth presses hard on my shoulders. My body ent safe when I dream-dance. That thing just tried to thieve my bones.
Crow warned me at Castle Whalesbane that things might get in while I’m dream-dancing, or I might not be able to get back. He said I needed a binding – some kind of spirit anchor.