“Where it went?” echoed Siravina. She had a slightly smoother voice than Paras, liquid honey to his dark molasses. “You want to call up a particular storm, then?”
“Yeah. Is it possible?”
“Is it?” Paras echoed. Siravina was silent.
Tom called out, “Oi, bird boy, you going to stand there all day?” with a tightness that made Danny try to pretend he hadn’t heard. See? he wanted to say. I’m standing on a grassy path with a swallow on my head, and it’s asking me about storms. It believes me! But there was a thin anger in Tom’s voice that Danny didn’t quite understand.
“What’s your problem?” he shouted back. “Can’t you see they’re talking to me?”
“They’re sitting on you,” Tom corrected him. “It’s probably ’cos you’re covered in squashed flies from all this stupid messing about.”
“She’s talking,” said Danny. “I can tell you what she’s saying if you like. I can just repeat it. Then you’ll know.”
Tom looked suddenly exhausted. “Oh, sure,” he said. “They’re talking. I can see that. Anyone could see that. Look … can we just go and sit in the barn for a while? I think we should have a rest.”
“You go,” said Danny. “I need … I need to talk to the swallows.”
Tom hesitated. It was clear that he wanted to say something scornful, but instead he gave a tired snort that didn’t really say anything at all, then turned on his heel and trudged down to the barn, climbing in through a hole in the planking and leaving Apple to graze on the thick grass outside.
Danny tried not to look triumphant. For some reason, proving himself right didn’t feel quite as good as he’d thought it would.
“Why would a human,” asked Siravina, “want to call up a storm? Storms are dangerous things. And more to the point, how could you?”
“I … I don’t exactly know,” said Danny. “But my parents were lost in a storm—and only that storm knows what happened to them. And I’ve found all sorts of things—a taro, a book called the Book of Storms. I’ve even found out the song of the storms, I think. So I must be able to call one up somehow, mustn’t I?”
“You have the Book of Storms?”
Both swallows spoke at the same time. Siravina’s claws dug into Danny’s scalp. Suddenly they had stopped breathing; they began to have a heaviness about them that weighed down on Danny’s head.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “It doesn’t say much, though, really. I mean, not for me. It’s just got the story of yesterday and today in it, all the stuff that’s happened since then, and a bit about Sammael. And then at the end it tells me to ask swallows—it says you know all about how to find a certain storm. I mean, I can tell you loads about the one I want. I can even show you a picture from it. You’ll have to look out while I get my bag off my back, though.”
Paras dug his feet into Danny’s sweater as he lifted the strap of his schoolbag carefully over the bird and swung the bag around in front of him, trying to keep his head steady. There probably wasn’t any need—Siravina was holding on so tightly that she wouldn’t have fallen even if Danny had started turning cartwheels, but Danny was anxious not to unsettle either bird.
He crouched down to unzip his bag and carefully pull out the Book of Storms. As soon as he had it in his hands he wanted to sit down and reread the whole story again. Perhaps there was a clue in it somewhere that would tell him whether he had any hope of finding his parents. Perhaps the book would have updated itself, to include what the swallows had just said. And then the book would have a bit in it about him reading the book, as if he were both over and underneath the pages. If it was still writing itself, when would it ever stop? When he found his parents? When he, somehow, one day, no longer had the stick anymore? Or would it just go on writing his whole life, as long as he had it?
Not that the rest of his life was going to be quite so much of an adventure, of course—he planned to spend a lot of it at home. If he could.
He opened the book to the title page. The swallows craned their tiny black heads to see the picture of the storm.
“Can’t make it out,” muttered Siravina. “Impossible to see, this close up.”
It wasn’t until she had taken off and flown a good distance away, then swooped down again from quite a height, that she saw the picture clearly enough.
“Do you know it?” asked Danny.
“Well, yes, of course,” said Siravina. “I know every inch of the sky. That storm was the night before last, and it came through this way, certainly. But it’s died out now, of course. It’s long gone.”
Danny’s fingers tightened on the Book of Storms. “It can’t be gone,” he said. “I have to call it back.”
“That’s impossible,” said Siravina, “Once a particular storm is spent, it can’t gather again. The energy has gone into other things. All that’s left is the taro. Storms exist for the moment. Didn’t the Book of Storms tell you that?”
“No,” said Danny slowly. He closed the book and ran his hand over the snakeskin cover. Did it shiver beneath his fingertips?
“Are you sad?” asked Paras. “Siravina can be a bit blunt sometimes. But she knows a lot.”
“No,” said Danny. “I was just following the clues. If there isn’t anything I can do, I suppose I’ll just never find them again.”
He had to bite savagely on his lip to stop it trembling, but it wasn’t tears of sadness that threatened to fall. It was some kind of boiling rage. His hands began to shake.
“Tell me how they went,” said Siravina abruptly. “You mentioned Sammael.”
“They just went,” said Danny. “In the middle of the night. I woke up and they’d gone, and I didn’t think that was too strange, because they always go to look at storms, but in the morning they weren’t back. They always come back. And then I found this notebook, and this old guy, and he told me that Sammael had done something to the storm to make it, I dunno, take them somehow—that sounds stupid, I know. But it’s the only thing that makes any sense. They wouldn’t have stayed away unless something … I don’t know … I dunno what I thought, really.”
Siravina fluttered down to perch on the Book of Storms. She looked at Danny, her tiny black eyes as shiny as beetles’ backs.
“It sounds reasonable to me. There are all sorts of ways of hiding people in weather. Perhaps Paras and I can help you—we’ll fly out and ask the winds what they’ve seen. We’ll see what we can bring back to you.”
It was a faint hope, but it breathed inside Danny as if he’d inhaled mint, clearing a path through his despair.
“Will it take long?” he asked. “Shall we wait here?”
“Best thing,” said Siravina, “is to go to the top of Sentry Hill. That way, if we do find there’s something left of that storm for you to call back, you’ll be able to see it coming. Sentry Hill’s the tallest point for miles around.”
“It’ll be dark by the time we get up there,” said Danny. “I won’t see it coming once it’s night.”
“Of course you will,” said Siravina. “Nights are never dark, once you open your eyes properly. And anyway, there’ll be plenty of moonlight. Come, let’s go!”
The tiny bird launched herself into the breeze, disappearing from sight within seconds. Danny didn’t feel Paras go, but he heard a flutter of beating wings and saw the swallow’s movement, sprinting off after his sister. Strange, intense little birds. How could they be so accepting? It had taken Danny nearly two days to accept that Sammael existed and storms were more than just the sum of their parts, and that even the birds could talk in their own language—but the swallows had just agreed that even things which seemed impossible were quite likely to be possible in the end and had made no fuss about it.
He’d miss that when he was back home again. But other things would make up for it.
* * *
After the swallows had flown off, Danny put the Book of Storms back into his schoolbag and went down to the barn to find Tom.
Apple was grazing ra
pidly, tearing up the grass outside the barn in thick tufts. She ate with the fury of a half-starved lion, turning her rump on Danny and Shimny as they approached. The piebald stayed well clear, aiming for a patch of grass ten feet away. Danny tied her reins up into a fat knot so she wouldn’t tread on them. She needed to eat, although he was anxious to get going.
“Tom!” he called into the barn, peering through the broken door at the dark mountains of moldy hay.
There was no answer. Cautiously, he picked his way through the strewn hay and let his eyes adjust to the gloom inside the barn, casting around for the shape of his cousin. Tom was lying in a huddle on a huge, stinking bale of hay. He seemed to be shivering, although the air was hot and damp.
“Tom?” Danny said again, but the shivering bundle didn’t answer. He must have fallen asleep. Danny edged his way forward, unsure of whether to wake him. Perhaps he was really ill, with some kind of blood poisoning from the dog bites, or water disease from the river.
Every nerve in Danny strained to go find Sentry Hill. He could just leave Tom sleeping, then come back to him later, after he had found the storm. Tom wouldn’t mind, would he? He’d never wanted to come with Danny anyway. He’d be happy if he was left to sleep.
Danny shook his head rapidly, trying to dislodge the thought. He’d been lost and scared, and Tom had come with him and kept him safe. What kind of a person would he be if he left Tom now, shivering in a barn? If all this came to nothing, if he never found his parents again, then Tom and Aunt Kathleen and Sophie would be the only family he had.
He sat a short distance away and tried to squash the nerves that were crawling up into his stomach. His cheeks burned and his head ached. If only Mitz were still around, he could have left her on guard, nestling warmly in Tom’s arms to quiet his shivers. But Mitz was gone, and that was Danny’s fault too. If only she hadn’t gone. If only they weren’t here. If only he could make his brain silent, just for a few minutes.
He leaned his head back against the rotting hay and closed his eyes.
* * *
“If you want to understand me,” Sammael asked Danny, “how would you prefer to do it? To picture me as a man? Or would it help if I were, say, a great crested newt? It’s all one to me.”
Danny looked up into Sammael’s black eyes and wished he weren’t so short. He knew that if he were taller, he’d be more decisive. It would make sense for the devil to be a man—that’s what he usually was. But a man with cloven hooves, horns, a tail. And red. So somewhat similar to a goat, but red. Was a great crested newt really much different from that?
He hummed a little to buy some time, watching Sammael tap his long fingers irritably along a polished tabletop. It was very important to get the answer right. Danny sensed that Sammael didn’t deal in second thoughts, or indecisiveness. The words that escaped from your mouth would bind themselves around you like ropes.
What should Sammael be? Man … goat … dog … axe … ant … moon …
“For God’s sake, hurry up,” snapped Sammael after about a minute of silence. But perhaps it had been longer than that.
“I … I … I…” Danny saw the look in Sammael’s hard, narrow eyes and clung desperately to what he might have been thinking. What was the devil on earth? What was the wickedest, hardest, most evil thing he could possibly think of? What did he fear most, apart from this indescribable being before him with its long fingers, twitching foot, and blazing eyes?
Nothing. He could think of nothing. In his eleven years of life, so many things had terrified him: large dogs, dark corners, the door to the headmaster’s office, shooting stars that might have been meteors, his father’s anger, things hiding in alleyways, under beds, behind the open doors of unlit rooms. But this was a different kind of fear, a hopeless fear that if he was wrong, if he gave Sammael a stupid answer, all would be forever awful and that would be the last word on the matter.
Danny found he was beginning to sweat.
“Come on,” drawled Sammael, looking bored. “If you’re going to make me into a devil, you must have some idea of what I look like. If not, how can you fear me enough to want me dead?”
Danny’s heart began to rush a little faster as if it knew the end might be near and it was trying to squeeze in as many beats as possible before it fell silent. His palms were soggy. What was it he was supposed to be answering?
“Okay, I’ll give you until the count of three. One,” said Sammael, his voice dangerously quiet. “Two.”
“No … wait…” said Danny helplessly, sure he could no longer breathe.
“Wait? For what? What’s the problem here? Are you not sure? Are you telling me you want to look at what I really am?”
“You’re evil!” Danny managed to gasp. “I know that!”
“Oh, Danny,” said Sammael. “You’re so disappointing. Well, we’d better get on with it, then. We’ve had one and two. What comes after that?”
“No, wait. Wait!”
“Three,” said Sammael. “Time’s up.”
* * *
Danny’s eyes snapped open, and he threw his arms over his chest, clutching his shoulders to shield himself. The light outside was fading. There was nobody else in the barn except Tom. Something was happening inside his head that he didn’t like at all.
He crawled over to Tom.
“Wake up! Wake up! We’ve got to go!”
Tom started, grabbed at something, and thrust it toward Danny. Cold metal grazed Danny’s cheek; he jerked his head backwards and stared. The fading light from the doorway flashed, once, on the quivering tines of a pitchfork.
“Jesus! What…”
“Danny! You scared me! Sorry!” Tom sat up and brought the pitchfork away from Danny’s face. “What time is it? Where is this?”
Danny edged back a little farther, although he was safe enough now. “We’re still in the barn. You fell asleep. We both fell asleep.”
“Damn! Is it … what time is it?”
“I dunno. Late. But we’ve got to go—the swallows went ages ago. We need to get to Sentry Hill.”
“We need to get home. I promised Mum we’d be back by suppertime. She’s done enough worrying.”
Tom began to move stiffly to his feet, clambering past Danny toward the doorway. Outside, he looked up at the darkening sky. Far above, the stars were beginning to glitter.
Danny came to stand beside him. “We can’t stop now. It’s nearly the end. It’s got to be.”
“Swallows won’t fly through the night,” Tom tried again. “They’ll have gone to roost somewhere. They won’t move again until the morning.”
“Well, go home, then. I don’t care. You never believe me, but I don’t care anymore. Go home to your mum if you’re so scared of the dark.”
Danny turned his face away. His skin burned. The moldy hay bales back in the barn seemed to be calling him to lay his head down on them, to let himself fall into a deep, yielding sleep. He’d lie there all night breathing in mold spores and dust, and all the insects and mice who had made their homes in the hay would crawl over him, but he’d be too asleep to care.
But then he’d wake up, and he’d have to get up and go on again. And one hour soon, if he was faced with much more, his heart would drop and fail him. He had to go. If Tom wasn’t going to help him, he had to go on alone.
He went back to Shimny and pulled her head up.
“We’ve got to go again, Shimny,” he apologized. “I think this is the last time. I think we’ll find them now.”
She didn’t seem to notice that he was talking inside his head. Maybe it still sounded exactly the same to her.
She said, “I’m hungry. Must we?”
But that was all she said, and then she lifted her old, patched head. Her blue eye was close to Danny’s face. Her solid old bones, stiff and tired and creaking, stood hard inside her warm skin.
“Sorry, old pony,” said Danny as he dragged himself up onto her back from a pile of planks. “We’ve got to go back to the woods and up th
at hill. Can you find it? I don’t know the way.”
“Sure I can,” said the pony. “I’ve been here before. But isn’t Tom coming?”
Danny didn’t answer. He could only repeat to himself, Soon, I’ll find them, and we’ll go home, and then all this will stop. It has to stop. Soon, it has to stop, or my legs just won’t hold me anymore, and I’ll fall off this pony and lie on the cold black ground and let the night swallow me up.
And as he set off into the last traces of the twilight, he heard a call behind him.
“Oi! You stupid idiot! Wait up!”
Tom was trotting after him. Little more than a shape in the gloom, his blond hair shone pale through the darkness. Arm outstretched, standing up in his stirrups, hand gripping the handle of the old pitchfork, he looked like a ghostly horseman ready for war.
For a second, Danny remembered the tines flashing so close to his face. Tom’s on my side, he reminded himself. He’s on my side, and at least he’s got a weapon now. Although we won’t get Sammael with a pitchfork. Still, if we’re quick, I might get to my parents before he finds me. And they’ll know what to do about him. Of course they’ll know. They’ll protect me.
CHAPTER 16
THE STORM
“They were here. Recently, I swear it. Very recently.”
Kalia gazed up at Sammael. He was standing by the barn door, looking at the empty space in front of the barn.
“Of course they were here,” he snapped. “But following them is pretty pointless if you can’t go fast enough to catch them up, isn’t it?”
“It’s not my fault,” the dog whined. “I told you, I’m a sight hound. I’m doing my best.”
She tried to push her head against his palm, but he removed it.
“You’re useless,” he said. “I don’t know why I let you hang around.” Kicking her away, he turned his attention to the grass and stamped on it. “Where are they?” he demanded. “The boys. The ponies. Where did they go?”
The grass shivered and stuttered under his feet.
“The p-p-p-ponies…” muttered one blade. “Their t-t-teeth…”
The Book of Storms Page 17