The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘You can make her better, Stormy, I’m sure you can. You have to!’

  They set the lanterns down on the rocky ledges round the cave and then crouched in front of the spitfyre.

  ‘I love her wings!’ Maud whispered. ‘They are so beautiful, like pearly fabric, and I love the colour of her coat. She looks magical, almost as if she were a fairy horse . . . I wish I could ride winged horses.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to come tonight?’ Stormy asked.

  ‘Yes. No.’ Maud took a fragment of paper from her pocket and laid it out on her palm. It was charred and burnt at the edges. ‘It’s from the ledger. I rescued it from the fire.’ Stormy met her gaze. ‘It’s got writing on it. I bleached out the burnt bit and re-stained the paper and the writing came up and . . .’

  A buzzing started in Stormy’s ears; he felt light-headed. ‘Oh. I can’t look,’ he murmured. ‘Tell me, does it say something on it, really does it?’

  ‘There’s a name on it. It must be this spitfyre’s name. I’m sure it is.’

  Stormy was so thrilled and surprised and amazed he could hardly speak. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s everything.’ He paused. ‘When a spitfyre is passed on to their new owner, they have a little ceremony . . .’

  ‘Yes. I know. I got these to help.’ Maud dug into her pockets. ‘Cotton wool represents a cloud, the pebble here is land and the bottle of water, er, is water. It’s air, land and sea, places the spitfyre will go.’

  Stormy nodded. Maud was racing ahead of him.

  ‘And we ask permission from the Spirits to let her move through the elements and be kept safe, don’t we?’ he said. ‘I’ve read about the naming ceremony too . . .’

  They turned and faced the spitfyre and looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘This is your naming ceremony,’ Stormy said. The spitfyre scrambled to her feet and tossed her head, snorting warm sparkly air. ‘Are you ready?’ Stormy asked her. ‘Right . . . Sun, Moon, Stars, all you that move in the heavens, hear me!’

  The quiet in the cave was enormous. The spitfyre was concentrating on Stormy; her eyes never left his face and her ears twitched upright.

  ‘Make the path of the winged horse smooth so that it may journey well,’ Maud said and put down the pebble.

  Stormy glanced at her. Maud’s eyes were shining, and her cheek was dimpled. She grinned back at him and gave him the thumbs up.

  ‘Winds, Clouds, Rain, Mist, and all you that move in the air . . .’ he laid down the cotton wool, ‘. . . make the path of the winged horse smooth so that she may journey well.’

  ‘Hills, Valleys, Rivers, Lakes, Trees, Grasses, all you of the earth . . .’ Maud put the bottle of water and a leaf onto the floor. ‘Make the path smooth for this spitfyre so that she may journey well.’

  ‘All you of the heavens, all you of the air, all you of the earth, hear me! Make her path smooth so she shall travel beyond the four hills. We name this spitfyre . . .’

  Stormy read from the burnt fragment of paper.

  ‘Seraphina,’ he said.

  The spitfyre suddenly sighed loudly, as if a valve had burst or a door opened, as if something had been set free. Tossing her head so her mane flicked left and right, she blew out a cloud of tiny silvery sparks. The sparks spun and twisted and spiralled, flying upwards until they fizzled out against the roof of the cave. Turquoise smoke billowed in long trails from her nostrils and curled round her head. She shook herself as if shaking off an invisible heavy coat; or, like a reptile, casting off an old and unwanted skin.

  ‘Seraphina?’ Stormy said, enjoying the sound. He laid his hand on the horse’s head. ‘Seraphina. Dear Seraphina.’

  ‘Seraphina. Beautiful Seraphina, angel of the air!’ Maud said. ‘Now she’ll fly for you, Stormy. I know she will.’ Maud turned towards the cave entrance. ‘I must go back,’ she added. ‘I’m cold and I still have chores to do. Goodnight!’ The light from the lantern fell across her smiling face; for a split second she looked quite different, like someone else he knew. ‘Maud?’ He wanted to look at her again. ‘Wait!’

  But she had gone.

  Who? He was suddenly confused. He felt as if he’d known her before in a different life or time.

  He turned back to study Seraphina, his spitfyre, and she stared back, her eyes bright and full of intelligence. Stormy quickly got down the bridle and put it on her and led her outside onto the terrace.

  ‘Now, my dearest Seraphina, this is the moment,’ he whispered to her. ‘This is the moment we fly.’ He remembered his vain attempt to fly with Mungo. He blushed hotly, thinking about it. What a disaster! He knew this would be different.

  Seraphina knew it was different too. She understood, he could tell that she did – the way she was looking up into the sky, imagining it, just like he was. She wanted it in the same way he did.

  Gently he got up onto her back. She was warm and shivering, gently expectant. He leaned down and whispered in her beautiful ear.

  ‘Seraphina! Let’s fly.’

  A tremor ripped through her body as if she’d been struck by gentle lightning. She flung back her head and made a strange sound, half whinny and half croaking dragon’s roar. Every inch of her body twanged and vibrated with energy. She lurched forward, as if a brake had been released, and Stormy nearly fell, just grabbing at the reins in time. Her hooves rang loudly on the stone flags but he had no time to worry about the noise. As she sprang towards the edge of the terrace, picking up speed, he felt as if he were sinking into her back, as if his legs and body were melding into hers and they were one being. He wasn’t bouncing at all, despite the speed, but was snug on her back as if glued there.

  Then she was at the edge and springing forward and upwards. And at that moment he felt something extraordinary, not just that they had left the ground, but rather that they had pushed the earth away and were suddenly free.

  Seraphina was a bird. A kite. An angel.

  As she leapt up, a great weight in his heart dissolved and something, some inner spark of great happiness filled its place. The sensation passed from her to him – or from him to her, it was hard to tell – all he knew was a great joyousness speeding through his veins. Tears filled his eyes. It was the first time he’d ever felt so close to another living thing in his life.

  They moved smoothly, almost silently as her large leaf-like wings flapped and they swooped effortlessly up and down in the dark sky.

  Stormy laughed out loud. There was nothing below them, nothing surrounding them; they were flying. He was flying. At last! At last! ‘I’ve waited all my life for this,’ he told her. ‘Seraphina! Thank you!’

  The air was startlingly cold against his cheeks and hands, but Seraphina was warm beneath him.

  They flew away from Dragon Mountain and the castle, into the depths of the dark sky. He felt he was actually flying amongst the speckling of tiny brilliant stars that surrounded them. Far away, the lights of Stollenback were twinkling and he could make out one or two lights in the village below. He didn’t want to be seen. How could he make her turn round? He felt a moment of panic, then squeezed his left foot and leg into her side and she obligingly moved in that direction. The smallest pull on the reins encouraged her to turn and fly that way. He sent her round in a figure of eight, pressing and urging gently, sharing with her the thrill of working together and understanding. He asked her to fly upwards just by wanting it, by thinking it, and she did exactly what he desired.

  ‘Fire,’ he whispered and she blew out a rush of yellow and gold flames. ‘Sparks!’ She lit up the sky with a cascading shower of white and silver sparkling dots.

  He didn’t know, but it would have taken any other sky-rider years and years to reach such an understanding with his spitfyre.

  He was born for it and they were meant for each other.

  When at last his ears were numb and his hands were locked painfully round her reins from the cold, he t
urned her gently back towards the castle. ‘Home,’ he whispered. It wasn’t much of a home, he knew, and she probably didn’t want to return to her dark cave, but he had no choice.

  Seraphina flew back quickly. He had a moment’s panic as the terrace seemed to rush up to meet them, but Seraphina was a flying creature who knew how to land without his help.

  Stormy slipped off her back and led her past the sleeping spitfyres in eleven and twelve and back into her own dingy cave. He rubbed her down and gave her fresh water and wrapped his arms around her neck and kissed her nose.

  ‘You are wonderful,’ he told her. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  He did not want to leave her and stayed with her until she had fallen asleep; then he crept back to his room and his bed, the happiest boy in the world.

  34

  Race

  Stormy loved Seraphina. For hours he brushed her coat and mane and, as he did so, he talked to her, telling her about his life in the kitchen, about Otto and about Tex and his skivvy friends. He talked about Al, too, and hoped that one day she would be able to forgive him; that Al would forgive her.

  Seraphina flourished.

  She was fatter, rounder and glistening like a ripe fruit. Her eyes were bright. Her wings had mended; her rainbow coat gleamed. Her hooves were polished, trimmed and oiled.

  Now, as soon as Stormy came into her stable, Seraphina blew smoke rings and spark showers of all different colours that lingered in patterns in the air. She pawed the ground with her delicate hooves and tossed her mane that was now silky and luxurious. Stormy hoped he’d never again see the closed, blank look on her face that made him so sad.

  On the rare occasions when Ralf and Purbeck were off somewhere and there were no other students around, he took Seraphina out onto the terrace and let her run up and down, flapping her wings to exercise them. He took her out at night and they practised diving, soaring, circling. Each outing was a joy, and he learnt more and more about flying.

  One morning, on his way to his classes, he saw a rush of students making their way to the noticeboard in the hall.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked Lizzie.

  ‘The Silver Sword! The competitors’ names have been put up!’

  Stormy experienced a little pain of exclusion. We might have stood a chance, he thought, making his way to the paper pinned on the board, in a month or two. Next year! Next year Seraphina and I would have won it!

  ‘You are some crazy guy!’ Bentley said to him, pushing past him rudely as he made his way back through the throng around the board.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you read the small print?’ Bentley added.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Stormy, confused.

  ‘Well done, mate!’ Tom said, slapping him on the back. ‘Loser!’

  Before he could get any closer to the list, Stormy saw Bella and grabbed her to ask her what was going on.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘But I don’t!’

  Bella shrugged. ‘You don’t have to lie to me, Stormy . . . I just wish you’d told me you were thinking of it, I’d have warned you off.’

  ‘Thinking of what? I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Come here.’ She pulled him along with her, pushing through the students to the noticeboard, where a large sheet of paper headed THE SILVER SWORD RACE had been pinned. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the competitor’s names below.

  Hector on Sparkit

  Petra on Polaris

  Lizzie on Daygo

  Tom on Condor

  Cindy on Easterly

  Bentley on Bluey

  and right at the bottom,

  Stormy on unnamed: thirteen

  Stormy felt his blood run cold and his head burn hotly all at the same time. Words wouldn’t come.

  ‘You can’t deny it now,’ Bella said, putting her finger against his name. Then she saw his expression. ‘You really didn’t know, did you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t put my name on that list.’

  ‘That’s your handwriting, your signature. I recognise it.’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. With a shiver, he remembered Araminta’s smiling encouragement to give generously to sick old spitfyres. She’d tricked him – how could he ever have imagined that she liked him? It was those ribbons that had made him believe she cared. She and Hector must have planned this together; they were both cheats.

  ‘What will you do?’ Bella asked.

  ‘Well, obviously I’ll go and see the Director,’ Stormy said, ‘and get out of it.’ But even as he spoke, he was thinking fast. Now his name was down, why not take part? Because you’re not good enough, he told himself. You’ll make a fool of yourself. The others have been sky-riders for years. ‘I’ll explain to the Director that I can’t – it would be mad . . .’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Hector, coming up behind them. ‘It would be mad. I can’t think why you put your name down.’ He grinned maliciously.

  ‘I –’

  ‘Mad. Must be the lack of breeding.’ He chuckled. ‘Starlight! Not likely!’

  Stormy watched Hector swagger away. He had never hated anyone so much in all his life.

  ‘Go and see the Director, Stormy,’ Bella urged him. ‘Hector will win the race and you’ll get hurt, even if you can fly that old creature of Al’s.’

  Stormy nodded. ‘I’ll go now.’

  He had to see the Director, he had to get out of the race, but the thought of coming face to face with a man who hunted down grubbins and kept a head as a trophy was enough to make him feel sick. Still, he went again to the green office and this time when he knocked on the door, the Director called him in.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Stormy, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come about the race.’

  ‘Yes?’ The Director looked up at him for the first time. ‘The Silver Sword Race?’ He tapped a pen against a pile of papers. ‘And?’

  ‘There was a mistake and I’ve come to say I don’t want to compete, I never wanted to take part; someone else put my name there.’ He twisted his hands together. ‘I mean,’ he went on as the Director continued to stare him down, ‘I mean, I can’t race, because I don’t have a spitfyre. That is, not a real one . . .’

  The Director leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m a busy man, Storky, very busy.’

  ‘Stormy.’

  ‘And I dislike cowards. I understand that Al gave you his spitfyre.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, but – I’m so new and –’

  The Director handed Stormy a copy of the list of competitors and pointed to some lines of minuscule writing at the bottom. ‘Read that.’

  No time wasters.

  No sky-rider may scratch from the race for any reason other than

  the loss of a wing, a leg or death of either rider or spitfyre.

  Forfeit: the sky-rider’s spitfyre.

  ‘So, either you race, or you give up your spitfyre,’ the Director said. ‘Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’ve never raced in my life!’

  ‘Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’ll come last and I can’t really fly,’ Stormy protested. ‘I’m just learning. I –’

  The Director looked weary and bored. ‘My patience is running out. Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’ll race,’ Stormy said. ‘But –’

  ‘Good day.’

  Stormy stood outside the Director’s office and pounded his fist into his palm. All right, all right, he thought. I’m glad. I’ll race for the Silver Sword. Let the battle begin!

  Stormy read everything he could about the race. Soon he had narrowed down the possible places where the Silver Sword might be hidden: Moleman Mount, Slender Point, the Strand and Dark Rock. He laid out a map on the ground in front of Seraphina and showed her the rivers, cliffs and mountains. ‘If it’s here,’ he said, pointing to Dark Rock, ‘we’ll have problems with height. It’s the tallest spot and there might stil
l be snow. If there’s snow we might think about putting hoof-chains on, but they’re so heavy that will slow us down dreadfully. And we may not need them. We’d have to come in from this angle and land there.’ Seraphina stared at the map as he showed her what he meant. ‘That’s the worst of all the options.’

  Seraphina blew out softly and shook her head.

  ‘Of course Slender Point will have its problems too,’ he went on. ‘Being so narrow, if two spitfyres land there’s no room for the next and there could be a squabble. It was Slender Point last time, so I doubt it, but then the Director could be crafty and chose it just to be difficult.’

  He ran his fingers over the map, tracing the river along the valley.

  ‘I just don’t think it will be the Strand,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s so far and it’s almost too easy, isn’t it? You know, I’m betting it will be Moleman Mount. Moleman Mount will be more difficult. See, there’s that peak and then this area around it, so hardly any room for a spitfyre to land. There are horrible updraughts and we’d have to fly in from here.’

  Seraphina puffed out pale sweet-smelling smoke and nudged his shoulder with her nose.

  ‘I know,’ Stormy said, ‘I know. I have faith in you. We’ll do fine. We’ll practise for Moleman Mount, then, shall we? In honour of our dear friend, Mungo. I wonder how he is? I must go and see the Smalls. They might know something about his wife and child; they know such a lot. But when? When can I go?’

  His lessons, combined with his night-time training, was exhausting and Stormy had to put Mungo’s request on one side. After the race, Stormy told himself, then he’d address that problem.

  The day of the race arrived.

  Staff and students gathered to watch, standing along the terrace or leaning from the windows and balconies above. The air was bursting with excitement and tension, as if something invisible was pulled tight between them all and might suddenly snap and send everyone hurtling off into space.

  Stormy took his riding suit out of its tissue paper wrapping for the first time. He laid it out reverently on the bed. There were tight trousers, soft boots and thin leather gloves – this would be better than his old overalls. He also had new goggles to keep the wind out of his eyes. His trembling fingers could barely do up the buttons and tighten the belt. At last it was all on. Finally he would be a real sky-rider.