The Huntress: Sky

by Sarah Driver

  Yapok clears his throat. ‘That’s not a thing you’re allowed to ask a person,’ he says sternly, making Crow laugh his tea out through his nose.

  Kes winks at me. ‘Flight,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘Mine tastes of flying free.’

  Crow takes another sip of his, eyes closed. ‘Mulled apple juice.’ Yapok gives a muffled squawk of annoyance.

  Sparrow falls asleep on the floor. Kestrel’s still reading when I climb into a hammock and shut my eyes.

  Something cold prods my neck. I blink my sleep away and roll onto my side – my eyes meet a row of toes and the sole of a small, grubby foot. Then I stare down the hammock. Sparrow’s fast asleep at the other end, singing out his dreams. Thunderbolt floats around his head, riding a strand of whale-song.  Tangle Hair sleeps, Black Hair wakes, Thunderbolt flies!

  I grin. They must’ve crept in with me during the night.

  I can taste blood, and when I run my tongue across my lips they’re split open from the cold. I bundle my arms around myself as the iceberg sends up a booming crack.

  Thaw-Wielder bursts from a hollow in the wall and lands on my hip, setting the hammock to swaying madly. She leans forwards and breathes fishily into my face.  Morning, Thaw-beast, I mumble.

  She belches in answer, and the stink tells me she’s snuck out through one of the burrows to hunt for Wildersea herrings.  Good for you, Thaw. She chortles in my ear.

  ‘Are you awake?’ asks Kestrel. I force my eyelids open and watch her slip-slide towards my hammock in her stockings, carrying a wooden bowl. ‘Look at these treats I found! I’m sure Yapok won’t mind us helping ourselves. They’re fat-dipped nutmeg butterballs! Have you tried them before? They’re the finest breakfast!’

  When I open my mouth to gift my heart-thanks she stuffs one of the snacks inside and my world explodes into rich, spicy sludge.

  Then she tucks herself back into her hammock and feeds Ettler a crumb of butterball. He trills joyfully.  Yumyumyumumbrrbellypop!

  I watch Kes’s hand dart quickly to the bowl. She stuffs a whole butterball into her mouth and wipes her fingers on her dress. When she sees me watching, she flushes. ‘Sorry,’ she says around her mouthful. ‘I’m not used to there being enough.’

  Soon Crow and Yapok are awake and Kes passes the bowl to them. As everyone eats, I keep thinking about how Yapok said the wild weather was destroying this iceberg. It creaks and groans around us and every now and then icicles shower down from the ceiling. Now we’ve escaped from Hackles I need to be on my way to find the next Storm-Opal.

  ‘There’s no time for any of this,’ I tell them, my fingertips itching with the urge to rove. I sit up and stretch my aching arms above my head.

  ‘Mouse,’ says Kes gently. ‘We needed to get to a safe place, and you needed to rest.’

  ‘Well, now I’ve rested.’ I swing out of the hammock, making Sparrow grumble, pull on my skates and face Yapok. ‘Heart-thanks for the food, but can I have a few beats alone with my crew?’

  ‘Mouse!’ scolds Kestrel.

  I shrug. ‘What? There ent no flaming nicer way to put it.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Yapok. He stoops to fiddle with one of his skate-blades – I notice his hands are covered in raw-looking burn marks and older scars. Before I can ask how he got the marks, he’s swishing away across the ice.

  Once he’s gone, my breath comes easier. We settle on some furs on the floor, and I look at the faces of my crew. ‘I need to get Da’s magyk map to find the Opals. At Hackles, I had a dream-dance to my ship.’ I meet Kes’s eyes and look away, cos I didn’t admit my night-flying to her before.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispers keenly. The Skybrarian gives a sudden loud snore.

  ‘What if I could get there again? And somehow bring the message back with me?’

  ‘You’d need a binding,’ says Crow firmly.

  ‘And can you touch waking-world objects, when you’re night-flying?’ asks Kes.

  I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘No,’ I admit. ‘At least I don’t reckon so.’

  Sparrow wakes up and starts whimpering, so Kes hurries to get her healer’s bag from under a table and roots around in it for his medsins. ‘Let me see that arm,’ she tells him. ‘Ah, look at that! It’s set nicely. We’ll get the elbow moving gently once the pain eases.’ She comes back to us and settles herself on the furs.

  Crow squishes another butterball between his fingers. ‘How about I shape-change and go and get your message back for you?’

  Unexpected venom leaches into my throat. ‘Oh, aye. It’ll be just like old times.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Kes, looking startled.

  I flush, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

  Crow gifts me a sour look. ‘Go on,’ he challenges. ‘Tell her.’ When I hesitate, he curses and rounds on Kestrel. ‘I was a rotten spy aboard her ship, and she’ll never let me forget it, which is fair enough.’ He flicks the hair from his eyes. He spits his words like poisoned arrows. ‘But what she don’t know is what set me on that path. I was raised to keep my crow-shape secret – folks don’t like anyone different, my mother always said. One day, a wanderer came to her for healings. A man with a fat belly and an even fatter purse. A fool could see that he weren’t paying my ma anywhere near enough silver in exchange for lodgings and medsin.’ He clears his throat. ‘We barely had enough to eat. Long and the short of it is the old crook caught me taking what we was owed. I used my shape-changing to escape him and he told the whole village, and the next ones over, about me becoming a crow.’ There’s a hot crackle in the air, like lightning. I know something worse is about to spill from his lips but it’s too late to stop it, now.

  Crow looks at me, eyes like iron. ‘So you want to know why I ended up where I did? Why I had to use my crow-shape for spying?’

  ‘No,’ says Kestrel, laying a hand on his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it, Mouse?’

  But Crow shakes her off. ‘That wanderer killed my ma for my stealing.’

  I drop my eyes to my hands. Crow’s breathing too fast, and there’s naught I can say, or do, there’s just fierce heart-sadness stretching the air like a bowstring.

  I risk a look at his face and tears are shining on his cheeks. When we lock eyes he rubs the wetness away roughly with his knuckles. Kestrel presses her fingers to her mouth.

  ‘What happened after that?’ I whisper, so quiet I almost don’t hear myself.

  ‘The village wanted to cast me out after they found out about me. But my father came back from gods-know-where and—’ He stops, swallows, keeps going. ‘I thought I’d be safe. But he sold me to the wreckers at Orphan’s Hearth. When I was sent to smuggle your brother it was meant as a test – to make sure I had enough rot in my heart to be one of them. After that, my nerve failed. Wish it had sooner.’ He puffs out a long, weary breath. ‘I’m sorry for what I’ve done – can’t you see that?’

  I let out my breath, crushed under the weight of everything he told me. I can hardly imagine growing up with that much guilt hanging over me. ‘Aye. I gift you my forgiveness,’ I say, like I once heard Grandma tell an enemy. Cos forgiveness ent just a gift to someone else. It’s what frees you from your own poisoned hook.

  He grins, in that way of his that spills burned light into his eyes.

  I return his grin something fierce. ‘If you’re serious about getting my message back, I’m still dream-dancing and going with you.’ I swallow, feeling a crackle of the fear stirring. I ent tried dream-dancing since that lost spirit tried to steal my body.

  ‘Will you be able to follow me?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Will I be able to see you?’

  ‘I don’t know! I’ve never tried to dream-dance somewhere with a shape-changer before, all right?’

  Crow jams his hands in his pockets and whistles through his teeth. ‘How will I know this message if I find it?’

  Telling them makes me feel like I’m stripping away a layer of my own skin, but I do it anyway, shuttin
g my eyes to whisper Da’s words.

  ‘Keep this hidden, Little-Bones. I cannot return, there is grave danger. Seek the scattered Storm-Opals of Sea, Sky and Land, before an enemy finds them and uses them to wield dark power. Take them to the golden crown before all Trianukka turns to ice, trapping the whales beneath a frozen sea. Remember the old song? The song will make a map. Keep your brother close by your side, and know you’re never alone. I will find you when I can. Da. ’

  Crow puffs out his cheeks and blows out all the air in a rush. ‘Cripes. He ain’t asking much, is he?’ I scowl, and he raises his palms in apology.

  ‘You spoke of a binding, before?’ prompts Kestrel.

  He opens his mouth, but the voice that greets our ears ent the wrecker boy’s.

  ‘I believe you’ll find a useful volume under Star Travel,’ crackles the Skybrarian. I freeze, and the hairs along my spine prickle. How long has he been awake? Could his ancient lugholes have caught my whisperings about the Opals?

  The old Skybrarian cranks himself up on an elbow and stares across at us with moon-pale eyes. ‘Don’t gawp, girl. Sky-gods know I didn’t save these books just for them to sit here, caged by a set of rules. So do you know where the section is to be found?’

  ‘Aye, Skybrarian,’ says Crow.

  ‘Find it quickly,’ he warns. ‘My apprentice – the real Skybrarian, now – won’t like it. Bring it back to me.’

  ‘Heart-thanks!’ I tell him.

  ‘Heart-thanks,’ he mutters to himself as he burrows down among his blankets. ‘My ears have gulped that somewhere before. It’s like a phrase from a dream.’ As we skate away, I feel the old man’s eyes boring into the back of my neck, like owls in the ice. How much did he hear?

  ‘Girl!’ he hisses suddenly, as Kes and Crow swish out of sight. I hurry back to the hammock and crane my neck to stare past the strands of silvery hair trailing over its edge.

  ‘I have another volume which might prove useful to you. You’ll find it under Legend. Many moons have risen since I heard utterings of the Storm-Opals. Or – no, no. I beg your pardon. Did I not in fact hear something much more recently?’

  My gut twists.

  ‘Mouse?’ Kestrel’s voice floats back along the path. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘What did you hear recently?’

  ‘Go,’ whispers the old man, as he sinks back down among his pillows.

  ‘Skybrarian? Did you hear it from me, a few beats ago, or someone else?’

  But the old crumbler’s already started to doze, his snores joining Sparrow’s. As I move towards the pathway between the bookshelves, a stifled sneeze throbs through the ghostway path into the room. ‘Yapok?’ I ask. But silence answers me.

  ‘Mouse?’ floats the call again. Icicles scrape the top of my head as I flail to catch up with my friends. Blue owls ping past my face. But at a crossroads between the shelves, I break towards the section Yapok showed us, shutting my ears to Kestrel’s call.

  I weave down path after path, heart thrashing as I stare up at the crowded shelves and try to remember where we saw Legend. I stumble on my skates. The paths grow darker and I wish I’d brought Thunderbolt. There’s a pale glow coming from the berg owls and one or two dusty whale-song lamps, though, and that’s enough for me to see the books’ spines if I squint.

  I pull out book after book. Some gargle and growl. Others spew clouds of brown dust that make me cough. Through the dust I glimpse stories with faded pictures of strange animals. I can’t believe the Sky-Tribes keep their stories on paper – at least a tusk or a bone can’t be ripped or ruined if it’s dropped in water. But I like the rich smell of the old parchment. My feet are hot and sore. I rest against a shelf and peer inside an owl burrow in the ice between two shelves. A pair of yellow eyes stares back.

  Who? chatters the owl at me.  Whoyouwhoyouwhoyou?

  Mouse, I answer.

  The owl utters a raucous chortle and lifts its foot in some kind of salute.

  Heart-thanks, I tell it.  Do you know if there’s a book here about gems like this?

  As I bring the Opal from my pocket, there’s a deafening flurry. Owls stream from their burrows over my head and circle around me, making Thaw spit and hiss something rotten – she must’ve followed me.

  Wisdomwisdomwisdom, chant the owls.  WissssssDOM. One dives for the Opal and I cower, covering it with my cloak.  Just to peek, it chatters mournfully.  Stone for all things, lifelifelife.

  Stone for life? I say It feels alive, that’s for sure. Do you lot know your way around these books? Do you know if there are old, old stories here, legends?

  A hoarse shout goes up from somewhere to my left.

  ‘I think I found something!’ Kestrel calls faintly.

  Soon a great tangled knot of owls have gathered, all hooting and making a commotion around a heavy-looking leather book they’ve plucked almost off a shelf.

  I dart forwards and catch the book before it splays onto the ice. The front is so covered in dust, and the light’s so dim, I can’t make out the runes. I wipe away the thick dust and tilt the cover towards a nearby whale-song lamp, but it’s too dim. I stretch up and flick the glass to make the strand of song thud about, jangling enough to shed a pool of light.

  When the runes emerge from the murk, it’s like a hundred pins have been stuck in my skin.

  The Legend of the Storm-Opal Crown.

  I skate back into the main cave.

  ‘There she is!’ Crow lays a book on a table and scowls at me. ‘You do know you could probably get lost in there for days, don’t you?’

  ‘Ignore him and help me with this,’ says Kestrel.

  She’s trying to open a book with a midnight blue, star-speckled cover and white runes spelling Tales of Night Flight. But it’s starting to ooze fizzling liquid that makes her snatch her hand back. An angry red rash spreads across her palm.

  ‘Skybrarian?’ I ask. ‘Can you help us with the book-monster?’

  He splutters awake. ‘Yes, yes. Without question. Now, two of you help me down while the other fetches that whale book I heard you reading last night.’

  ‘Help you down?’ repeats Crow in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, boy, yes. I’m not dead yet, am I?

  While Kestrel gets the book, Crow and me stand under the Skybrarian’s hammock and catch him between us as he tumbles free, hair dragging along the ice behind him. Owl pellets fall from his long nightgown onto the ice.

  ‘Do be quick and find me a chair,’ he says urgently. ‘My bones are book-dust.’

  I push an armchair towards the table and we prop the Skybrarian up in it, draping a fur over his knees. ‘That’s better. Now. Would you open that book, please? Any page.’

  Kestrel shoots me a baffled look and opens the whale travels book.

  The old man nods. ‘That’ll do. Now stand back, and whatever you do, don’t move!’ As Kes moves back, concern etched across her face, the Skybrarian grasps Tales of Night Flight and wrenches open the cover with sudden strength, revealing a small scaled beast dripping more fizzling black slime. The old man yells, flinging the creature by the tip of its tail towards Kes. She shrieks. The creature splats into the pages of her book.

  ‘Close it! Oh for the gods’ sake, be quick!’

  Kestrel slams the book shut and it twitches for a few beats, then stills. She puts it down with shaky hands. ‘Skybrarian, I – thought you would use magyk!’

  ‘Magyk?’ His eyebrows quirk upwards into his silvery hair, and he smiles at her. ‘Not everyone is as young as you, you know! Try remembering all the spells when you’re my age and then ask me to use magyk. No, sometimes all one needs is brute force.’ He breaks off into a rattly cough, and Kestrel reddens.

  ‘Skybrarian, can I see that book?’ I ask.

  He jolts, spinning around to goggle at me. ‘Why, yes!’

  As he begins to snooze in his chair, I take the book and open it at a page showing an old woman flying above a village at night. An image flickers in my mind – the sp
irit snagged like a cobweb on the mountain. The one that tried to slip into my body. I breathe to try and slow my thudding heart. I still feel wrenched by the memory, and every time I blink I see the spirit’s anguish, stamped behind my eyes.

  ‘Night-beings can sometimes take possession of a person’s body,’ reads Crow over my shoulder, ‘particularly if that person is a dream-walker. To prevent this the dream-walker must paint runes of binding around themselves. Helpful rune groupings are described below. ’

  ‘Can you paint the symbols around me before we go to find Da’s message?’

  ‘Aye, though you ain’t to pass judgement on my penmanship.’

  ‘As if I would, pearl-brain.’

  He glances at the book under my arm and taps its cover. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

  I fix my eyes on the slumbering old man. ‘A book of legend.’

  As I say it, the Skybrarian’s pale eyes flick open in their baskets of wrinkled skin. ‘I did ask for a book, didn’t I? Now what was it . . .’

  I glance around me. Even though I heard that sneeze before, I ent seen feather nor tail of Yapok, so he must still be gifting me time with my crew. ‘It’s The Legend of the Storm-Opal Crown,’ I whisper.

  Kestrel gasps. Sparrow sits up in his hammock, rubbing his eyes. ‘That’s my favourite one!’

  ‘Is it, dear?’ The old man beams. He does the same trick again, to get the monster guarding the book to leap into another unguarded one that’s waiting for its spine to be mended. Then he opens the book of the legend, presses a single glass lens to his eye and starts to read, glancing up at us now and then. ‘The Storm Opals were cut from one larger piece, when the great Tribe system was being built. They were each instilled with a sliver of the elements: a foam of sea, a fragment of sky and a fracture of earth.’

  I pluck at my sleeves impatiently.  Aye! I know all this.

  ‘So, the people of Trianukka felt that each Opal contained a piece of themselves. ’ He looks up at us. ‘The little sliver of life instilled within each jewel would affect its behaviour, don’t you think?’

  I remember the Sea-Opal growing wet and sticky in my palm.