The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  Eleven and twelve were both black spitfyres with slate-grey wings. They looked identical, except Smokey in the eleventh cave was bad-tempered and stamped its hooves on Stormy’s feet when he tried to go inside and clean, and Kyte, in number eleven, was sweet-natured and gentle. Kyte had coal-black eyes and a long nose with a white star between his eyes.

  And then there was the spitfyre in the last stable. Thirteen. The spitfyre with no name and fur so dirty the colour of its coat could only be guessed at.

  Al had forbidden Stormy to enter the cave, but Stormy had no intention of obeying him. He ignored the warnings he got from Ralf and each day he inched round the rock in cave thirteen with the spitfyre’s food and put it close enough for the flying horse to reach it. Every time he went in he was afraid that the poor thing might be dead, but each day it was still breathing, and although he couldn’t help it, he hoped it could hear his voice gently coaxing it to eat and saying encouraging things.

  One day when Al was dead drunk and Ralf had been sent on an errand by a teacher, Stormy took the opportunity for a longer, proper look at the sick spitfyre.

  Holding a half-shuttered lantern so it wouldn’t blind the poor creature, he inched his way inside the cave. He felt sure the spitfyre had got used to him a little now. He called out softly, warning the spitfyre that he was coming, and it did not immediately spit. He must have scared it the first time, by bursting in like that.

  ‘Hello. It’s me!’

  The spitfyre dragged its head from the floor; its eyes were clogged with sticky yellow gunk. It was all bones; its shoulders and hips stuck up through its skin like tent poles. Stormy gulped.

  ‘Poor thing, poor thing,’ he whispered, going nearer. ‘It’s only me. You know me, Stormy. I bring the food. It’s all right.’

  The spitfyre threw out a broken whinny sound and half sat up. Stormy didn’t budge. He swore. He swore again. The creature was just blustering out of fear, that was all. Al shouldn’t let this be – it just wasn’t right. He had to do something before it wasn’t there at all. He had to do more to help it.

  ‘It’s just me. Don’t be scared. Is it the light? I can dim the light more.’

  His lantern wobbled, sending scary shadows and shapes skittering over the walls. He steadied himself, determined not to let the spitfyre force him out.

  It was weak and sank back onto the ground, watching him warily through its half-open eyes.

  ‘Shh, shh,’ Stormy said, softly. ‘Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you.’

  It was smaller than all the other spitfyres. Its short ragged mane stuck up like a crest. Its tail was thin and matted. Some of its left ear was missing. It was impossible to see what sort of a state its wings were in.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said again. ‘I’m a friend.’

  A puff of foul-smelling tarry smoke was the spitfyre’s reply.

  Stormy stepped closer and immediately it tensed, baring its yellow teeth and tossing its head in warning. It tried to fan out its wings, but it was too feeble and all they did was flutter weakly.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s OK,’ he said soothingly. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you better. I want to help.’

  The place stank. It was piled with dirty straw and empty buckets and all sorts of rubbish – bones and rind and eggshell. The goggles and reins on the wall hadn’t been touched for years and were thick with greasy dust and cobwebs.

  Stormy sank to his knees and shuffled closer, keeping eye contact all the time, murmuring encouraging sounds. ‘Good thing, good spitfyre. I won’t hurt you. There, there.’

  He touched it. The spitfyre let out a squeal and Stormy snatched his hand back, his heart racing. After a moment he put his hand on its neck again. ‘I won’t be scared of you,’ he said as calmly as he could. He reached his hand to it. ‘I want to be your friend,’ he said. ‘I must find out your name; I want to help you.’

  The spitfyre flopped back onto the floor, no longer fighting. ‘You haven’t eaten your food. There, there’s your food, just by you. See, I won’t hurt you. I’m going to get you cleaned up and your wings mended and . . . I’m going to help you somehow. I’ll come back. I promise. I’ll come back and help you get better.’

  That look in its eyes – it wasn’t malicious or truly fierce, it was the same look that the stray cats had when they came begging for food at the kitchen door. They spat and hissed like anything, but their eyes were full of fear. If he never did anything else in his life, he vowed, if he never managed to be brave or daring or to ride a spitfyre, at least he would help this animal. Nothing was going to stop him. Nothing.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Al was limping around the servery, one hand on the table, the other holding an unopened bottle of wine. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Stormy turned away so Al couldn’t see the look in his eyes which might betray him. ‘Nothing,’ he lied.

  ‘I want you to take the Director this bottle of elderflower champagne. It’s from Otto,’ Al told him. ‘Go.’

  He went.

  The two guards standing outside the dungeons seemed to never move and never change. Perhaps they even slept standing up. Was the grubbin Stormy helped locked up down there now, beneath their very feet?

  Just as he was about to knock on the door, it opened. The Director stepped out and they nearly collided.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir, sorry!’ Stormy yelped, tripping back down the steps. He thrust the bottle at the Director. ‘I was bringing this!’

  The Director stared at Stormy for a while, as if he was trying to identify him.

  ‘I’m Stormy, sir, from the servery.’

  ‘Ah yes. Come over here, Stormy, come this way.’

  Alarmed, Stormy allowed the Director to lead him to the east side of the courtyard, near the tower and the two guards. He stopped by the wall and pointed out over the valley to the distant blue hills.

  ‘What do you think of that, then?’ he asked Stormy.

  Stormy had never in his whole life been asked to give his opinion on anything. Skivvies weren’t supposed to have thoughts. He gulped nervously. This was his moment to think of something original and clever and he couldn’t think of a single thing.

  ‘Of what, sir?’

  ‘The hills. Those mountains. The valley. Those places are full of hidden treasures, gold and silver and jewels.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And we need them clean and free of . . . free of bad people. Don’t we? Wouldn’t you like to be master of all you can see?’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ Stormy admitted.

  The Director put his hand on his shoulder. ‘You should, Stormy, you really should. Dreams can come true. When I was a lad, Stormy, I had dreams. I didn’t have the best of beginnings, as you haven’t, but I did something about it. I changed my life. I moved on. I shook off those shackles that bound me to that other life . . . I am the Director of the Academy, the best spitfyre Academy in the world.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s wonderful, sir.’

  ‘And you will change your life too, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I hope so.’

  ‘Good.’

  Stormy thrust the bottle into the Director’s hands, explained again what it was, and ran back to the servery.

  He felt immensely proud that he had been singled out and spoken to. Next time though, he vowed he’d make a better job of it.

  They were doling out the morning feeds when Ralf stopped, leaned on his thork and stared hard at Stormy.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to tell you, for your own sake – Al doesn’t like what you’re doing.’

  Stormy froze. ‘What? What am I doing?’

  ‘Cleaning. Tidying. Interfering with his spitfyre. You know.’

  Stormy relaxed and grinned. ‘How could he not, you idiot? It looks so much better. The spitfyres are happier. It hardly stinks at all – you have to agree it hardly stinks.’

  ‘Sure, but –’

  ‘I know their names
too. I’ve learnt them all. They’re easier to manage when you use them.’

  Ralf sighed. ‘I just wish you wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I want the Director to see how well I’m doing. He might give me a better job.’

  ‘Oh, Stormy! This place . . . It’s run this way because it’s run the way they want it run, Al and the Director. Don’t interfere, that’s all I’m saying – and keep away from thirteen.’

  ‘I can’t keep away! But look, Ralf, you don’t need to know about it.’ Stormy had promised thirteen that he would help, and nothing would make him break that promise. ‘Just ignore me.’

  Ralf made a snorting noise of disapproval and went on with his chores. When he took the small bottle of yellow powder from his pocket and sprinkled it over the food, Stormy couldn’t help himself from commenting.

  ‘If that stuff’s so good, why not give it to all the spitfyres?’ he asked.

  ‘I just do what I’m told,’ Ralf said.

  ‘Is it the Director’s orders or Al’s?’

  ‘Don’t ask so many questions. I don’t care.’

  ‘It’s just, well, I even wondered . . .’ Stormy looked up at number five, Bluey, with its mean sapphire eyes, ‘. . . could it actually make them a bit more fierce?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The Star Squad spitfyres. I can see they’re the fittest and the finest, but . . . haven’t you noticed? After they’ve eaten, they’re angry and sort of wild.’

  ‘Stormy, you are nothing but a servery helper,’ Ralf said. ‘You are not a spitfyre expert. Forget about it.’

  But Stormy couldn’t do that.

  The courtyard was empty – although you never knew whether you were being watched or not with all the overlooking windows. Stormy went quickly back towards the servery, keeping close to the wall.

  He heard laughter and shouting and a group of students spilled out of a doorway. Quickly he nipped into the nearest passageway.

  He was next to an open window. It was a classroom of some sort, and on the wall was a large portrait. The name at the bottom said: WESLEY GRANT. WINNER OF THE SILVER SWORD. He was a plumper, older version of Hector. The Director had said something about him at the medal ceremony. Stormy felt a pain in his chest – a mixture of envy, pride and admiration. Lucky Hector! Sky-rider, rich and a famous father. It wasn’t fair.

  Suddenly the classroom door burst open and a group of students came in. Stormy ducked down and he would have crept away, but a few seconds later he heard the Director’s voice too and he froze, listening.

  ‘. . . and the Star Squad will have the greatest sky-riders the world has ever known,’ he went on. ‘We are already reaping the rewards of all your efforts, ploughing the money back into the Academy. Your training has been highly successful and I’m proud of you all. Proud of what you’ve accomplished. It’s a pity we must keep our activities so secret, but I can’t see any way round that at the moment. Not everyone will understand what we are doing. Not everyone will share our ideals, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.’

  ‘I like it being secret,’ someone said. ‘It makes it more fun.’

  The others laughed.

  ‘Quite, quite,’ the Director said. ‘Why should the unchosen be in on our secret? But when they experience the New World we’re forming, when they feel the purity of it; then they will understand. Now, tonight’s little exercise is this . . .’

  But before Stormy could hear another word the window was slammed shut.

  The noise of the window shutting rattled his bones. It closed him out and made him feel more of an outsider than ever.

  He dragged himself out of the passageway into the deserted courtyard, wondering at what he’d heard. Although he longed to be ‘chosen’, there had been something chilling about the Director’s speech. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. What was wrong with the old world? Maybe things weren’t wonderful for him, but the students were fine; they had everything already. What more could they want?

  He was so distracted that he didn’t see Maud and almost walked right into her.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ he cried out.

  Maud laughed. She was carrying a pie which Stormy had nearly sent flying.

  ‘You are determined to get a pudding on the floor, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You were in a dream.’

  ‘I was. I am. Too much to think about. Actually,’ he said, blushing, ‘I was hoping I might see you.’

  Maud grinned. ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Where are you going? Can we talk?’

  ‘I’m taking this to the gatehouse. It’s a treat for the littles. They love popapple pie.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Stormy knocked on the gatehouse door for her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ came a shout.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Who’s that knocking on the door?’

  ‘You can’t come in! You can’t come in!’

  ‘It’s Stormy and Maud,’ called out Stormy.

  The door opened a crack and a little gnarled face, wrinkled like a walnut, looked out.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘To give you something,’ Stormy said.

  ‘Don’t believe you. Why should you? You just want to see some freak things, don’t you? We’re not freaks, you know. You want to see tiny chairs. Teeny-tiny doll-sized beds and tincy-wincy china. Is that it?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Mr Small,’ Maud said, pushing forward. ‘As if we would! I’ve got pie for you.’

  The door opened wider.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so,’ said the tiny person, holding out his hands.

  Stormy glimpsed a room choc-a-bloc with things. Not an inch of bare wall showed – they were covered with paintings of ponies, spitfyres and littles. Two sets of shelves were lined with large official-looking books. A desk was open, showing stacks of papers and pots of pens.

  ‘Is there room for that pie in there?’ Stormy said, pretending to hold it back.

  ‘Cheeky!’ Mr Small said, and grabbed the popapple pie. ‘Thank you, Maudie.’

  The door slammed shut.

  ‘Come and sit here,’ Maud said, pointing to a bench in the courtyard. ‘It’s not in sight of the Director’s house.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Araminta likes to know where I am and what I’m doing and –’

  ‘Al and Ralf are the same. But Araminta said you were part of the family.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ Maud flicked her apron. ‘Would you?’

  Stormy grinned. ‘No. But it must be fine living in that grand place though. I’d love it.’

  ‘Stormy, if you only –’

  ‘Oh, Maud! You’re the only person I can talk to here. Can I tell you something?’ And before she could answer, he told her everything. How he was cleaning things up, that there was a sick spitfyre he wanted to help, how he had overheard the Director, how Ralf gave the Star Squad yellow powder that he thought made them fierce. ‘You should see Sparkit after he’s had the stuff,’ he said. ‘He’s scary. So it can’t be a good thing, can it? I don’t think Al knows . . . You know, down in the kitchen I never thought about much. I never questioned anything! I wish I had now. I don’t know what to do.’

  Maud began wrapping her apron strings round and round her finger. ‘Other helpers have asked that sort of question. Ollie asked a lot of questions,’ she said. ‘He asked about the Star Squad. He wanted to know what they were training for. It’s not a good idea to ask questions and interfere.’

  ‘But don’t you think I ought to tell the Director what’s going on?’

  ‘Oh no, don’t do that!’ Maud cried. She grabbed his arm. ‘He is – well, he is the Director and he’s very busy and . . . I think he can be pretty tough, you know.’

  ‘But he seems so kind and clever.’

  ‘Seems,’ Maud said grimly.

  Stormy was surprised at the hardness in her voice. ‘But Maud, he wouldn’t harm the spitfyres, would he? Not the Director
,’ he went on. ‘I wonder what he meant about the New World? It did make me feel a bit . . . cold, somehow.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard the New World stuff before,’ Maud said. ‘That doesn’t worry me, it’s just talk, just talk to get his Star Squad to work harder, but that poor thing in thirteen, that worries me.’

  ‘Me too. Al has forbidden me to do anything. I don’t want to lose my job, but it’s so poorly . . .’

  Someone shouted and Maud glanced towards the house nervously. ‘I’d better go. Listen, Stormy; Ollie complained about Hector, he wanted things done differently . . . He was worried too, and . . .’

  ‘What do you mean? Why did he complain about Hector? Isn’t Hector a star? Hasn’t he the best spitfyre?’

  ‘Yes, and yes, but you don’t really like him, do you?’

  Stormy bit his lip. He didn’t. He wanted to, but he didn’t.

  ‘You see, Stormy,’ Maud said, ‘Ollie didn’t just fall off the cliff . . .’

  He looked at her imploringly, hoping she wasn’t going to say what he was beginning to suspect . . . He did not want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything bad about the Academy.

  ‘Oh, Stormy, it was awful!’ Her voice cracked, remembering. ‘Hector was flying back to the terrace and Ollie was crouched down . . . I don’t know what he was doing – mucking around, being silly – and suddenly Hector spotted him and went for him! His spitfyre did an amazing sort of twist in the air, grabbed Ollie in its teeth and picked him up! It was terrible. Awful! And Ollie screamed and then, then, the spitfyre flew out over the hill and just let go . . .’