Hector led the group. He was wearing a tight-fitting dark suit and long boots which, with a stab of envy, Stormy recognised, was the Academy riding outfit. It showed off Hector’s well-toned muscular body to its very best. He was play-fighting with another boy, pushing and shoving and pretending to hit him, and they were both laughing. Stormy put his head down and tried to merge into the scenery as he and Ralf headed back to the servery. He knew what a pathetic figure he made in his too-small jacket and big boots. He knew his hair was tangled and too long. He probably had food stains on his jacket front too.
‘Whoa! Hi there, Ralf!’ Hector called and he held up his hand so the band of students he was with bumped into each other as they suddenly stopped. ‘Who’s the new friend, Ralf?’
Ralf nudged Stormy in the ribs.
‘Stormy,’ Stormy said.
Hector nodded slowly, as if he was thinking about it. ‘That’s an interesting name. Are you? Are you Stormy?’
‘No,’ Stormy said. ‘I don’t get into rages, if that’s what you mean. It was because –’
Hector held up his hand. ‘Nah! Too much information. You must have come up to replace Ollie? Ollie was such a sensitive chap,’ he said, gazing over the valley. ‘A really nice boy. Did you hear what happened to him?’
‘Not now, Hector,’ said the boy he’d been play-fighting with. He was small with large brown eyes and very straight black eyebrows and hair.
Hector spun round and glared at him. ‘Ollie had an accident, Bentley, what’s wrong with talking about that?’ He faced Stormy again. ‘I don’t know why people won’t talk about it. Still, I’m glad we’ve got a new boy to help, because although Ollie was a dear chap, he was about as much use as a one-handed grubbin when it came to spitfyre care. He was scared of them. You aren’t scared, are you?’
‘No,’ Stormy said, standing a little taller, jutting out his chin. ‘Not me.’
‘Good, that’s good.’ Hector nodded towards the caves. ‘Come with me!’
Stormy glanced at Ralf and then followed Hector to the first cave. Of course this Star Squad spitfyre, the biggest and scariest, was bound to be Hector’s. And since they’d fed it, the spitfyre had become electrified – Stormy was glad he didn’t have to go into its cave now. It was tugging at its chains and snorting. The silver scales around its muzzle actually seemed to have lit up and were glowing with heat. It fixed its eyes on Hector expectantly, almost lovingly, and began to puff and bellow so narrow orange flames flickered from its nostrils.
‘This is Sparkit,’ Hector said.
Sparkit. Stormy thrilled to his name. It was perfect. Sparkit.
‘What a monster, eh?’ Hector said with pride. ‘I hope he behaves for you. You’ll look after him, won’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, I will,’ Stormy said.
‘You’ll need to take extra care of him. He’s very special, worth a great deal of money. Unlock him, would you?’
‘Bridle him first, Hector,’ Bentley said with a nervous laugh. ‘You know the rules.’
‘What rules? Sparkit’s fine. In you go, new boy.’
‘I don’t have a key.’
Ralf tossed him a bundle of keys.
‘Now you do,’ Hector said. ‘In you go.’ Stormy’s knees buckled. ‘Don’t be scared.’
Stormy glanced at Ralf, who was looking oddly pale and strained. Perhaps Ralf was a little jealous of the attention Stormy was getting, or perhaps he was scared for him.
Stormy grabbed a thork and, holding it up protectively, he crept in, determined to do well, determined not to let his nerves spoil this moment. The spitfyre rolled his eyes, arched his neck and snapped his jaws, spitting out tiny balls of fire at him. Stormy dodged, feeling a blast of hot air follow him round the cave. He could hear the students chuckling behind him, and that made him hotter and more determined to do things right. He went on, creeping behind the spitfyre towards the darkness and the chinking chain. The great bulk of the creature, hot and pulsating, seemed to fill the cave. He was much hotter and jumpier than he had been when Stormy first fed him.
There was only a thin space between the spitfyre and the wall, and one careless side-step from him, or one intentional side-step from the bad-tempered spitfyre, would crush him against the rock. This animal oozed aggression. He did not want Stormy in there. Without turning his head towards him, only rolling his eye so he could keep track of him, the spitfyre was squeezing him against the rock.
Stormy picked up the heavy chain carefully, letting his hands inch along it until he reached the metal cuff. He was so close to the spitfyre he could see the individual silvery hairs of his coat and the pulsating veins that ran below the pale skin of his belly. The smell of cordite and burnt matches filled the air.
He fumbled through the keys, looking for the right one. Sweat was pouring off him and dripping into his eyes. His fingers slipped and fumbled. He found himself squashed against the hard uneven wall, furiously fitting one key after the other into the lock.
‘How you doing?’ Hector yelled.
‘Good, good!’
At last he had the right key. Carefully he turned it. Carefully he unlocked the leg iron and lifted it off.
Sensing he was free, the spitfyre puffed out short, excited breaths, and some tension that had been there evaporated, only to be replaced by another sensation – as it got ready to move outside – of thrilled expectation.
The grubbin convict must have felt like this, Stormy suddenly thought, when he’d got his leg iron off. Poor grubbin. Nothing should ever be chained up.
The spitfyre danced out, hooves noisy and sharp on the stone. On the terrace he appeared as a black featureless winged shape against the brighter, lighter sky. He unfurled his wings like new leaves opening for the first time and shook them energetically. The sun blazed through the membranes, showing the sinewy spokes like an umbrella.
Bentley shouted something about his bridle, but Stormy could only stand and stare in awe. Fantastic, just utterly fantastic!
The massive spitfyre began to circle and paw the ground, anxious to go.
‘You forgot my gear!’ Hector yelled. ‘My gear!’
Stormy looked round quickly. There was a large empty stone basin at the back of the cave, where in the olden days the dragon’s treasure trove would have been. No gear.
‘Hurry up!’
‘Coming!’
He scanned the cave. Hanging on the wall near the entrance were goggles, a helmet and reins. Stormy seized them quickly and took them out. ‘Here you are.’
Sparkit had swelled in size. He was prancing about, shifting and sidestepping, eager to go.
‘Sparkit! Bridle!’ Hector said, and the spitfyre reluctantly lowered his head so Hector could fit the reins and bridle on. There was no bit to go in his mouth; Stormy knew that winged horses did not submit to anything being placed in their mouths. Ralf held the reins while Hector fitted his helmet and goggles on, and then he stepped up on the mounting block and swung himself onto the spitfyre’s back.
The students shifted out of the way quickly, knocking into each other in their hurry to make space.
‘Sparkit! Fly!’ Hector commanded, and leaning forward he whispered instructions into the spitfyre’s ear. ‘Fly!’
With a loud swish, Sparkit flung out his wings to full extension and flapped them once slowly, experimentally, then again, harder and faster until dust blew up.
‘Fly!’ The spitfyre lurched forward, neck outstretched.
A great wave of air ripped round the onlookers so they fell back against the wall. Stormy was incapable of moving or speaking. Blood pounded inside his head. It was so beautiful!
‘Fly!’
Spitfyre and rider leapt into the void like an enormous bird. One moment Sparkit was hanging in the air, wings spread, next he was dropping like a stone, plummeting into the valley.
‘No!’ Stormy yelled, rushing to the edge, totally sick with horror, his face frozen into a ghastly grimace. They had fallen thousands of feet . . . they
’d be dead . . . or so hurt . . . why wasn’t anyone doing anything?
‘No!’
He ran, was almost at the edge, when with a sudden loud whoosh, the air heaved and the spitfyre soared back up into view. Stormy toppled. The spitfyre flew up and up and away.
Bentley and the others clapped and cheered.
‘He always does that,’ Ralf said, picking up his thork. ‘He’s one big show-off.’
Stormy stared after the disappearing spitfyre. Slowly he got up. Total horror was slowly replaced with a dull admiration . . . And for the first time in his life, he felt completely and totally overcome with a terrible envy, and it hurt.
He helped several other students with their spitfyres, asking the names of their animals as he did so. It wouldn’t take him long to learn them; it wouldn’t be hard.
The red spitfyre in eight with the topaz eyes and the long yellow mane was Kopernicus. The emerald-green spitfyre was called Daygo, and of course the blue spitfyre was called Bluey. It belonged to Bentley.
The last time he had been this close to Bluey was when he’d crashed into the garden of Otto’s kitchen, and then Araminta had been riding him. He wondered if Bentley knew that she had borrowed his spitfyre. Probably not, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell him.
‘My, he’s frisky!’ Bentley said, trying to rein Bluey in. ‘What’s up with him?’ But he didn’t wait to hear if there was an answer and soon he was swirling up into the sky, blue merged into blue, and he was gone.
The spitfyres are wasted on these students, Stormy thought, watching as one by one the spitfyres left the terrace. He imagined what it would be like to sit astride one and feel the thrust and pulse of the powerful wings. To glide through the air, miles above the ground and go anywhere he wanted . . . He sighed. Life was so unfair.
15
Cosmo
Later, Stormy thought over his feelings. Envy. He wanted everything that Hector had. And more. But it wasn’t the riding, the outfit, the power; it was because he loved these creatures and he thought he would be a good sky-rider, a nicer one than Hector, a more caring one than Bentley.
He was sure that the Great Renaldo loved his spitfyres; you could tell he did from his pictures. He cut a brilliant figure in his red trousers, white boots and twirly moustache. Stormy put the flyer into his pocket. Perhaps some of the Great Renaldo’s skill would seep into him and help him. Stormy would get the food lifts cleaned up and do something about the spitfyres getting the right food. That would help.
Al was in the servery, sitting at the table, staring out through the open door onto the terrace. Cherries, slices of pineapple and apple had been fashioned on the table top into a lopsided face.
‘Hello!’ Stormy said. ‘Is the food good?’
There was that sherry trifle smell oozing out of Al again, but no trifle.
‘Otto’s food’s too good to eat,’ Al said, twiddling a cherry eye. ‘Would be wasted on me.’
If Al hadn’t been eating trifle but he smelled of sherry, maybe he’d been drinking it? Maybe he drank a lot of it? Maybe that accounted for his weird behaviour . . .
‘What’s that in your back pocket?’ Al tugged at the white ribbon in Stormy’s trouser pocket.
As Al pulled the ribbon, the circus flyer came out too and fell on the floor. Before Stormy could get it, Al had stamped his foot down on it.
‘What’s this?’ He bent to pick the handbill up and almost toppled over.
He was drunk.
‘It’s just something about a circus,’ Stormy said, putting out his hand for it.
‘My giddy aunt flipping Sally!’ Al whispered. ‘Where did you find this?’
He was smoothing the sheet out on the table and staring at it. For the first time dabs of colour emerged slowly in his cheeks, almost as if he was thawing.
‘Cosmo’s Circus.’ Al was shaking his head slowly. ‘Look, look at him there!’ He pointed to the young man with the moustache. ‘Don’t you recognise him?’
Stormy shook his head. As if? How could he recognise a man in a circus when he knew no one and had been nowhere?
‘It’s me, you lummuck. Me!’ Al grinned at Stormy’s surprised expression. He rubbed his big hands over his face, feeling along his upper lip as if searching for his lost moustache. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he added.
‘You!’ Stormy grabbed the paper and stared at the young man. ‘You were death-defying! The high spot of the show! You were the Great Renaldo?’
Al sighed. ‘Ah ha,’ he said.
Stormy waited for more and when Al didn’t speak, he went on, ‘You look amazing in the picture.’ He sat down, encouraging Al to talk more. ‘Awesome.’
‘Huh.’
‘What happened? Why didn’t you stay at the circus?’
‘Forget it, Stormy.’ Al’s face suddenly went hard.
‘Please. Oh please!’ Stormy fixed him with a pleading stare. ‘I’m really interested. Please tell me, Al.’
‘I’m too drunk. Oh, what the heck, who cares? What does it matter? I was born into the circus,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and staring into the distance. ‘My father was a circus man; he worked with rare animals, seaquins, unicorns and serpents, that sort of thing. He was good.’ Al smiled slowly; his look was dreamy. ‘I can see Pa now,’ he said, ‘stroking those bad-tempered seaquins, never a thought for their evil beaks! They didn’t interest me. But when the circus got a spitfyre, oh, then things were different. I loved it. I had a way with it too, though I didn’t realise it at the time. The circus bought more of them; they were popular with the crowd. I became their friend; I could stroke their noses and pour ideas in their little ears and they understood me –’
‘A spitfyre whisperer!’
Al nodded. ‘The spitfyre trainer was harsh and used a whip. He’d had every finger burnt and was scorched almost bald! Cosmo was glad to replace him.’
He stopped and stared out of the window, his face settling back gloomily into its normal scowl. While Stormy waited for him to continue, he tried to see some of that young man, that spitfyre whisperer and lover, in Al’s stony face.
He couldn’t.
‘My father died; it was a giant python that did it – wrapped itself too tightly round his neck. That left me on my own and in charge of all five spitfyres. It was like living on a tightrope; balancing on the edge of life and death all the time, but I wasn’t scared. I lived and slept with my spitfyres, I tried to get right inside their heads to understand them . . . I thought I could do anything. You understand that, I know you do, Stormy. You love spitfyres in that way, in that special way . . .’
Stormy nodded.
‘But Cosmo was so demanding, he wanted so much from the spitfyres and me. Faster! Jump higher! More daring!’
‘What did Cosmo make you do?’
But Al hadn’t heard him. ‘Spitfyres are ancient beasts. Complicated. They have feelings and you can push them too hard. Push them back with the thork until they bluster and spit and spark at you. The audience liked that, Cosmo liked it, but it means nothing; they get annoyed and then they jump out of the way, bounce away.’
‘But they could just burn you,’ Stormy said. ‘How come they didn’t shoot flames at you?’
‘Cosmo cheated,’ Al said quietly. ‘He fed them non-flammable food before the shows. They couldn’t do more than make smoke.’
‘Go on,’ Stormy urged. ‘You were saying how the spitfyres pretend to attack but then bounce away.’
Al sighed. ‘They didn’t really want to fight. I used their names; I was their friend. But for the audience it looked good – bounce them up onto a table or even up onto the sides of the cage . . . And then there was the Spin . . .’
‘Spin?’
Al nodded. ‘The Spin,’ he repeated heavily. Cosmo wanted me to do it –’
‘Hello!’ Ralf came in, slamming the door behind him. ‘What are you two up to?’ He pointed to the clock. ‘Dinner time!’
Al shuddered and came back to the present w
ith a jolt.
‘The Spin,’ Stormy urged him. ‘Go on.’
Al shook his head. ‘I knew I wouldn’t like talking about it, Stormy. Leave me be. It hurts to talk about it. The Spin was the end.’
It wasn’t the right moment, Stormy knew it, but he had to ask. ‘I want to look after your spitfyre,’ he said.
Al stood up, knocking over his chair. He slammed his fist on the table, suddenly alert.
‘NO!’ he roared. ‘No one goes near that spitfyre. It is forbidden, Stormy. Forbidden!’
16
Maud
Al drank all week long. He drank until his voice slurred and then he drank some more until his chin dipped onto his chest and he fell asleep.
Stormy went to bed worrying about spitfyre thirteen and woke worrying about it. How could he help it when he was forbidden to go near it and both Al and Ralf were watching him so closely?
So he bided his time. He polished the old copper pans and he cleaned the windows in the servery. He cleaned up the food lifts, scrubbed the stone-flagged floor and blocked up as many mouse holes as he could find. He sorted out drawers and cupboards and rearranged them, putting everything in order. Now Otto’s ways – the cleaning and organising and routines – didn’t seem so harsh or worthless after all. And all the time he thought about the lonely spitfyre in the last cave.
‘Waste of time,’ Al said, looking at the sparkling windows.
‘It’s a dump. Keep it a dump,’ Ralf said.
It was the same with the stables. Each time one of the caves was left empty while the spitfyre was out flying, Stormy went in and cleaned it. As he got braver he even took the gentler spitfyres out of their caves, tied them up outside and then cleaned. He scraped off the thickly encrusted dirt and brushed away cobwebs from the cave walls. The nose-burning smell of spitfyre urine began to fade. He noticed that the animals soiled their caves less once they were clean, and would wait for him to let them out.
Now he knew each spitfyre’s name and nature.
The unpredictable Sparkit was in number one. Snapdragon – who would try and nip him when his back was turned – in two. The buttercup-yellow Westerlie in three, then the beautiful emerald-green Daygo in number four. Bluey in five. Then there was a fat pink spitfyre with very small frilly wings who went by the name of Lacewing. Next came Polaris, another Star Squad spitfyre whose coat was brown or green depending on where the light hit it; it had extraordinary eyes with golden irises. Kopernicus, in eight, had a dull red coat, like old velvet, and violet-coloured scales around its hooves and nose. In nine there was an orangey-yellow spitfyre called Cloudfree. She was gentle, with a crooked ear, and damaged wings so she couldn’t fly. Spikelet in the tenth cave was an old spitfyre who was rarely taken out. The girl who owned it said it was just there because all her family had ridden it and now they didn’t know what else to do with it.
The Spin Page 8