The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  Stormy glared at the floor. The other girls were looking him over too. Was he good-looking? He knew Mrs Cathcart thought so, but she didn’t count, she was just squinty-eyed, fat Mrs Cathcart . . .

  Hector was the last to arrive and he was in such a hurry he tripped over Stormy’s foot as he walked past, landing him a mighty kick on the ankle.

  ‘Sorry, I do apologise,’ Hector said. ‘Oh, it’s you, Stormy. Fancy me kicking a new boy. I am so clumsy . . . Ready for the tests? Aerodynamics, isn’t it?’

  ‘Isn’t it myths today?’ Bella shrieked. ‘Please tell me it is! Myths and legend, surely!’

  ‘It is, Bella,’ Mrs Lister said. ‘Don’t worry. As if I’d test you on aerodynamics! I know nothing about them at all.’

  ‘Oh, is it? My mistake,’ Hector said with a laugh. ‘I hope you didn’t waste time revising the wrong things, did you, Stormy?’

  ‘No. I didn’t,’ said Stormy.

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ Bella said, raising her eyebrows. ‘The toad!’

  Hector winked at Stormy. ‘My mistake.’

  Stormy guessed he’d been tricked. That’s what happened to new boys. That was OK. He’d just ignore it.

  He looked at the papers: some of the answers seemed to just erupt out of him from a memory bank that he didn’t know he even had. It was as if anything about flying horses concerned him. He sailed through the questions.

  ‘Only a few weeks now before the Silver Sword Race,’ Mrs Lister reminded them as she gathered up their answer sheets. ‘Is anyone in this group – apart from Hector – entering?’

  Petra and Tom put up their hands.

  Mrs Lister smiled. ‘It’s a tough one; I’m not surprised only you Star Squad riders are taking part. You see, Stormy,’ she explained, ‘it’s only every ten years. The race is fast and hard. No one knows where the Sword will be until the last minute, so they can’t prepare, and sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes they never come back and one wonders whether the race is really worth it, just for the title and the honour . . .’

  ‘And the Director has made it even tougher,’ Petra said, ‘because the last one back loses their mount – they have to give their spitfyre to the winner. It keeps the race small and very competitive.’

  ‘And the winner –’ Tom said.

  ‘Which will be me!’ Hector said, banging his fist on his chest.

  ‘– Goes down in history.’

  Stormy had been trying not to think too much about meeting his own spitfyre and having his first ride, but by the end of the lesson, he could think of nothing else and was desperate to get to the stables. He’d flown so many times in his dreams and now it was going to be the real thing. Finally he asked Bella when they might go.

  ‘Usually no one goes down to the stables before lunch – at least not if you have a West-side spitfyre,’ Bella told him. ‘The light, you know.’

  Stormy knew this was true. ‘But I could go now?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re a bit of a keener, aren’t you?’ Petra said.

  ‘I suppose you fancy beating Hector? Everyone feels like that when they start here,’ Bella said. ‘Forget it, new boy, Hector is always the best.’

  ‘I don’t want to beat him,’ Stormy said, glancing over at the other boy, knowing it wouldn’t pay to be on the wrong side of someone like Hector. ‘I just want to do well, that’s all.’

  Hector smiled. ‘How charming.’

  ‘Come and have break with us first,’ Bella said.

  They took him to the Snook, a small room where coffee, hot chocolate and cake was served. Petra and Lizzie squashed alongside him on the bench and Bella sat on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘So exactly how rich are you?’ Lizzie asked him, snuggling up.

  ‘And did your benefactor give you loads to spend?’ Petra asked. ‘There’s a good shop here where you can buy extras. I’ll take you there later.’

  ‘My father’s got three spitfyres, you know. All very rare breeds,’ Lizzie said. ‘You must come stay in the holidays.’

  They wanted to know if he thought his parents were really alive, if he thought his parents were noble or flying horse masters, or perhaps royal? The boys weren’t much interested in him, but he didn’t care, although he wished Hector found him interesting enough to talk to. He didn’t mind what questions the girls asked; he liked being the centre of attention.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll go and –’ Stormy stopped as suddenly a dull bell sounded.

  The girls groaned.

  The bell rang in a slow and heavy, thudding way, like the one in Stollen did when someone had died.

  ‘You won’t want to go out now,’ Tom said.

  ‘Why? What does that bell mean?’

  ‘It means convicts are being moved.’

  ‘Oh, let Stormy go see!’ Hector’s friend Bentley said. ‘He might recognise one! His father, perhaps?’ He laughed.

  ‘Bentley!’ Bella looked embarrassed. ‘Ignore him, Stormy, he’s such a poser.’

  ‘No, I’m only telling the truth, Bella,’ Bentley said, smoothing his hair off of his forehead. ‘He’s an orphan. He may be rich, but no one knows anything about his family or his breeding.’

  ‘I’m not a prize cow, Bentley,’ Stormy said.

  ‘I didn’t think orphans were allowed at the Academy,’ Petra said.

  ‘I do think one should know who one’s parents are,’ Tom said. ‘Imagine, they could be anyone!’

  Stormy straightened his shoulders and marched out through the nearest door.

  ‘Not that way!’ Petra called, but Stormy couldn’t turn back. He was so angry he thought he might hit someone. He went down a short corridor and opened the door at the end; it gave straight onto the courtyard.

  He stopped, dazzled by the bright sun in the clear blue sky. It was cold and the breeze was as sharp as needles. The bell had stopped ringing, and the air seemed to hang emptily around him, waiting.

  The littles were swinging like children on the large handles of the open gate; the iron hinges squeaked as if they hurt. They were giggling and all the while darting sidelong glances up at the tall house where the Director stood like a rock, staring at the tower in the far corner of the yard. The usual guards were not there.

  Somewhere out of sight, a door creaked open and four guards appeared, slowly rising up from the sunken stone staircase beside the tower, like spirits from the grave, their heads and necks emerging first, then their shoulders and bodies. Behind them came a group of convicts – grubbin convicts – and behind them, more guards. At the sight of the convicts, Stormy felt his stomach contract and a coldness came over him; it was an old fear mixed with pity. There were six of them, linked together by chains that were bound to their heavy metal cuffs at legs and wrists. They lifted their heads up briefly, blinking against the blinding sun. Their clothes were nothing but rags; their feet were dirty and bare.

  Why were they all grubbins? What terrible crimes could they all have committed?

  As they shuffled past Stormy found himself studying each of their grimy faces, looking for his grubbin and hoping he wouldn’t see him.

  Petra appeared beside him. ‘They told you not to come this way. See,’ she said, linking her arm through his, ‘it’s prisoners. They’re being moved somewhere. The dungeons must be full or something.’

  ‘But they’re all grubbins,’ Stormy said.

  ‘Crime enough,’ Petra said.

  ‘Do you think that?’ Stormy said, shifting away from her. ‘I hate that talk. There’s a chef I know, called Brittel, who thinks like that about grubbins, but it isn’t true. I can’t believe it.’

  Petra shrugged. ‘They’re so dirty,’ she said. ‘They smell wormy. They’re short and stupid and greedy. Why should they have all that gold?’

  Stormy gritted his teeth. ‘They find it, don’t they – on their own land?’

  ‘But what do they want with it? Nothing. I think the world would be a much better place without them,’ she added. ‘And we could h
ave all the gold.’

  The group clanked over the stones and out of the gate. His convict was not amongst them; hopefully it meant he was still free.

  The littles swung the gate shut with a clang, then went rolling and cart-wheeling merrily back into their gatehouse as if they were in a circus act, and slammed the door shut.

  ‘All gone,’ Petra said. ‘Wonder where they –’

  ‘So here you are!’ It was Lizzie. ‘I’ve come to show Stormy the way to the stables,’ she said, linking her arm through his spare one.

  ‘We don’t need you,’ Petra said, pulling him the other way.

  Stormy didn’t like to remind them that he had worked here and knew the way.

  ‘West or East?’ Lizzie went on. ‘Which are you?’

  ‘Oh.’ He hadn’t given it any thought, but surely, yes, surely it would be West. ‘West,’ he said confidently.

  Lizzie led him down a wide corridor that opened onto a small disc-shaped terrace facing due south. Circular steps led down from here to the terrace. These south steps had been out of bounds for the servery staff.

  Stormy paused, looking round at the wide view of mountains, slopes covered with pine trees and craggy rocks. He filled his lungs with the cool, fresh air. Down in the kitchen he could never have believed he’d ever get to breathe this high-altitude air again. Never see this view. He felt full of energy, purposeful and hopeful. He was desperate to get to his spitfyre.

  ‘Are you sky-riders too?’ Stormy asked as they walked towards the caves.

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘My spitfyre is Daygo. I’m going to major in psychiatry – study the mind of a winged horse, you know; though I adore flying too.’

  Stormy remembered Lizzie now from her visits to the lovely green spitfyre; he also remembered, unfortunately, how she had wacked the spitfyre with her riding crop when it didn’t behave to her liking.

  ‘I want to study every bit of their life,’ Stormy told her, ‘but more than anything I want to ride.’

  At the bottom of the steps they turned right and so came onto the West terrace. In a few paces they had reached cave thirteen. Stormy forced himself not to turn and look at it.

  ‘This is Kyte here in twelve,’ Petra said, ignoring the thirteenth cave as if it wasn’t even there. ‘Mine is further on. Polaris.’

  Stormy knew Polaris. He was a member of the Star Squad, a golden-brown colour with greenish tints and very bad-tempered.

  ‘So, which is yours?’ Petra said. ‘When did it come?’

  Stormy stopped dead.

  When did it come in? He had no idea!

  ‘If you didn’t bring it,’ Lizzie said, laughing, ‘someone else did. You can’t not have one if you’re a sky-rider.’

  ‘I am a sky-rider. I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to be.’ He stopped breathing. Why had he not thought of this before?

  ‘So where is it?’ Lizzie persisted.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Stormy felt the tightness give way to a great emptiness in his guts. Dread and disappointment mingled, making him weak and sick. ‘It must be somewhere,’ he said, looking around desperately. ‘I must have one, mustn’t I?’

  25

  Where?

  There was the noise of the dragon-wagon trundling over the stone slabs and Purbeck and Ralf appeared. They were chatting, and their shoulders bumped together as they walked. When Purbeck suddenly burst out laughing, Stormy felt as if he’d been stabbed. For an instant he was jealous of them; he’d loved that job, he’d truly loved it. For a second he wished he were still cleaning out spitfyre stables instead of trying to be something that he wasn’t and hobnobbing with the likes of Hector and these girls whom he didn’t understand at all.

  ‘Purbeck! Ralf!’ he shouted.

  The girls winced. ‘We don’t talk to them,’ Lizzie hissed.

  Stormy’s ears were ringing and his heart was banging painfully against his ribs. ‘Ralf! My flying horse? I do have a spitfyre, don’t I? Don’t I? Do I have one?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Ralf said.

  He spun round. ‘Purbeck?’

  Purbeck shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen one, Stormy. Sorry, mate. Maybe there’s been some sort of mistake . . .’

  The girls looked amazed and vaguely amused.

  ‘Is it some sort of joke?’ Lizzie asked, but Stormy had already spun on his heel and was running to the servery.

  Al was standing outside the servery door, beside the low wall, throwing crumbs into the air. A cloud of tumbling, swooping birds surrounded him, squawking and piping.

  ‘Al!’

  The tall man pivoted round slowly.

  ‘Hi, Al! It’s me! Stormy!’

  Al’s face had become more cadaverous than ever. The deep creases in his face were so black they looked like they’d been drawn in charcoal. There was no smile, no sign of recognition. He turned back to the clamouring birds.

  ‘Al, you remember me! You do! It’s me, Stormy.’ He tugged his Academy jacket off as if that would make Al see who he really was. ‘Stormy.’

  ‘Stormy?’

  ‘Yes. Hell’s bells, Al, don’t do this to me!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t be so cold and distant, please. I haven’t told anyone what you did – the mouse thing. I won’t. Al, please, I need a spitfyre. I’m a sky-rider. You’re the spitfyre keeper. Don’t I have a winged horse?’

  Al smiled, but there wasn’t a jot of humour in it. ‘You do not have a flying horse.’ He sat down on the low wall and faced Stormy. ‘I would know if you did. I would have logged it in and it would have a new stable. Not that any are empty . . . Your benefactor doesn’t know much about the Academy, does he? What sort of a fool wouldn’t know you need a spitfyre? Too much money and no sense, I expect.’

  ‘But, you could have said!’ Stormy roared. ‘When you knew I was coming, why didn’t you tell them what was needed? You could have told Mrs Cathcart or that Mr Topter. Why are you against me?’

  ‘I’m not against you in particular, Stormy, just the whole world.’ Al looked down at the crumbled squares of toast in his hands.

  ‘Well, all right, Al,’ Stormy said bitterly. ‘So where can I get one? I’m sure I’ve got enough money. I’m sure my benefactor will pay for one. He must if he wants me to be a sky-rider.’

  Al was staring up at the circling birds, crying for more food.

  ‘You can’t. Oh, no, Stormy, you can’t just buy one, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘No. No.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that; winged horses don’t get bought like cakes.’

  Stormy smashed his fist on the wall. ‘Rot your bones, Al!’ he yelled.

  He was about to head back into the Academy, when he stopped as an idea struck him. Turning, he flew past Al, past Purbeck and Ralf and past all the spitfyres, down the whole length of the great terrace. He passed thirteen. There was a spare spitfyre, he knew, but what use was it? He wanted a proper one.

  He went on, right round along the circular steps and on to the East side.

  Most of the day the East side was in deep shadow, which made it much colder than the West, but right now it was bathed in morning sunshine. He didn’t want a gloomy East-side spitfyre, but who was he to pick and chose? It would do. It would have to. Anyway, he’d make it good, the best.

  The tightness in his chest was worse than ever. He stopped, bent double, trying to get his breath.

  ‘Hello!’ Troy – or was it Roy; he didn’t have the time to look for the earring – came towards him. ‘Is that you, Stormy? Heard you were back.’

  The other brother popped out from the next cave and grinned at him. ‘Look at him, the fine gentleman!’

  ‘Posh, eh?’

  ‘I’m not posh. I –’

  ‘We heard you’re so posh you can’t even speak to poor old Purbeck.’

  ‘No. Yes. I can. I just – I just had some luck, that’s all.’ He breathed deeply. ‘I was just wondering,’ he went on, fighting to keep himself
under control, ‘if by chance my spitfyre was here? I’m a sky-rider and I must have a spitfyre to fly, but it isn’t on the West side.’

  The twins looked at each other, identical faces smiling identical smiles.

  ‘Flying horse?’

  ‘Do you have it here?’ Stormy asked.

  ‘Do we have it here?’ one said.

  ‘Do we have it here?’ said the other one.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the other said, without a shred of regret in his voice.

  Stormy looked along the row of caves. There were spitfyres here just as there were on the West side, blue and silver and red and green: large and small and fierce and smoking. He needed one. Any one at all would do.

  ‘Is there –’

  ‘Oh, put him out of his misery,’ one twin said and Stormy’s heart leapt – they were teasing him! An East-side spitfyre wouldn’t be so bad . . .

  ‘The truth is, no. Sorry, no.’

  ‘What?’ He looked from one to the other desperately. ‘Are you sure?’

  They shook their identical heads.

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘You do not have a spitfyre here.’

  ‘No spitfyre.’

  Stormy turned away to hide the distress and despair that surely showed in his face. He went slowly back the way he’d come, his feet like lead. Something was broken inside him.

  No spitfyre. No spitfyre!

  Somehow he made it back to his bedroom, shut the door and lay down on his bed.

  What was he going to do?

  Stormy didn’t move for a long time.

  His thoughts kept returning to cave thirteen. There was a spitfyre in that cave; a flying horse no one wanted. He wanted one . . . But it was crazy to think of it – the creature was ill and useless and he wanted a really fantastic one. No, he wasn’t even going to consider it.

  He had been staring, unseeing, at the wall of books above his desk, and now one particular title stood out: Owning Your First Flying Horse, by Professor Georgie Blink. He had not seen it before. He took it down and began to read.

  . . . there is no particular shop where you can buy a flying horse. It would be foolish to think winged horses can be purchased over the counter like bags of flour; it would be like buying a human child from a market. Plus it would be highly immoral. Flying horses come from dealers who have them from the egg or captured as a hatchling. Unless you have your winged horse from very young and you undergo the naming ceremony with it, you will never bond or receive any loyalty from your beast. There is some evidence of winged horses being captured when around five years old and being trained and named, but few are known to this author personally and hence not recorded in this book.