Snow flurries swirled around him, the tiny flakes clinging to his whiskers and fur. Anticipating the worst, he slipped on his gloves and pulled his hood over his face to protect his eyes and nose.
A few feet away, his companions had finished reefing the sail so that only half the white fabric was exposed to the strong wind. Even then, the mast still groaned and shuddered under the strain.
‘Get inside, all of you!’ Whisker ordered.
‘What about you?’ Ruby replied, hesitating at the entrance to the cabin.
‘I’ve survived cyclones …’ Whisker yelled, his voice drowned by a crash of thunder. ‘Now go!’
Ruby disappeared into the cabin and Whisker steadied himself against the tiller, awaiting whatever Mother Nature threw at him.
The storm hit hard. In moments, Whisker was surrounded by a whirlwind of snow, ice and lightning. Soft ice pellets called graupel rattled against the roof and deck of the boat, stinging Whisker’s arms and shoulders. He was well protected under his thick coat but the graupel pelted down like bullets. He wrapped his scarf tightly around his face, keeping one eye fully shut and the other open just wide enough to see the tiller in his right paw and the compass in his left with each flash of lightning.
The wind blasted the back of his coat, threatening to lift his body off the boat. Only the rope attaching his wrist to the tiller stopped him from being flung overboard. The strong bonds didn’t prevent his feet from sliding across the wet deck and dragging the boat off course. Unable to gain any traction, he slammed his boots against the bulwark, stiffening his legs to brace himself. Then, using the strength in his arms, he forced the rudder back into position.
There he stayed, not daring to move, his body wedged diagonally between the stern of the boat and the tiller. Snow covered his body, layer after layer, as the white world slowly turned to grey. Thunder rumbled overhead and the dark sky exploded with flashes of brilliant white lightning. Fierce forks of electricity struck the surface of the lake just metres from the small boat. The blinding torrent of snow and graupel continued relentlessly.
Whisker’s limbs ached. His clothes weighed him down. He could barely see his paws in front of his face, let alone his friends in the cabin.
We should have reached the shore by now, he thought in despair. Surely we must be close …
A grinding vibration in the hull gave him his answer. With the sound of creaking wood, the Ice Maiden shuddered to a halt.
Whisker straightened his cramped body and peered over the edge of the boat. The water was almost black. Squinting hard in the flash of a lightning bolt, he made out the shape of a round stone beneath the churning surface.
‘Land ahoy!’ Chatterbeak squawked from the cabin. ‘Prepare to disembark.’
At the announcement, Whisker hurriedly untied his arm from the tiller and sloshed across the deck. Great lumps of snow and ice slid off his shoulders as he walked. With every step it felt as though a huge burden was being lifted.
If we reached the edge of the lake, then surely we can weather the storm, he told himself.
He entered the cabin to find Ruby lighting a lantern and the others filling rucksacks with supplies.
‘Chatterbeak says we’re a stone’s throw from the shore,’ Ruby hollered over the rattle of graupel on the roof. ‘We need to find shelter before this storm gets any worse.’
‘Worse?’ Horace cried, trying to untangle several blocks of chocolate from a pile of finely woven cast nets. ‘How can it get any worse?’
‘Believe me. It can get worse,’ Ruby said, throwing her bow over her shoulder. ‘And when it does, the last place we want to be is on this boat waiting for the next lightning strike.’
‘She’s right,’ Whisker said, picking up a second lantern. ‘Even if we do survive the lightning, there’s a strong chance the storm will evolve into a night-long blizzard.’
‘Enough with the weather report!’ Horace groaned, still struggling with his nets. ‘I’ve got my own problems to deal with.’
Ruby grabbed the entire tangled heap of chocolate and nets and stuffed it into Horace’s rucksack.
‘Packing’s done,’ she hissed impatiently. ‘Now get a move on.’
Carrying whatever supplies they could manage, the four companions scrambled towards the side of the boat. The wind was too fierce for Chatterbeak to attempt an aerial evacuation and he left his fisherman’s jacket buttoned up for protection.
Horace was the least willing member of the crew to take the plunge into the dark water and waited on the bulwark as the others began sliding down the anchor rope.
‘You’d better hope this lake is shallow enough for me to wade through,’ he said, patting his bulging rucksack. ‘I’m carrying highly sensitive cargo and I’d hate for it to get wet.’
‘Typical,’ Ruby said, reaching the surface of the water. ‘We’re within a whisker of death and all you can think about is chocolate.’
She passed Chatterbeak her lantern and unhooked her longbow, lowering it beneath her it to test the depth of the water. The shaft went down a short way and then stopped. Satisfied with the result, Ruby released the rope and slipped her boots into the water.
‘Brrr,’ she shivered, wincing at the icy temperature of the glacial water. Using the longbow to support her ankle, she began wading over the uneven stones of the lake.
The snow-laden wind whipped around her, threatening to throw her off balance. Fortunately, the graupel had ceased, ensuring the crossing was a little less bruising, and Ruby reached the shore without mishap, calling for her companions to follow.
Chatterbeak came next, paddling like a duck. Whisker trailed closely behind him, the water lapping around his legs. Not wanting to be left on his own, Horace reluctantly splashed after them. He was too busy making exaggerated shivering noises to notice a large wave hurtling towards the shore.
Before Whisker could warn him, Horace was walloped from behind and thrown face first into the shallows. He emerged from the foaming water coughing and gasping for air. Whisker grabbed him by the hook and hauled him onto the gritty sand.
They had only just left the water’s edge when a huge clap of thunder exploded behind them. For a split second the entire beach lit up like daylight. Whisker glimpsed the snaking shape of the glacial stream to his left before darkness returned. Fearing the worst, he spun around to see the mast of the Ice Maiden bursting into flames. A casualty of the lightning strike, the entire vessel was soon ablaze.
Horace turned and stared at the burning boat, water streaming from his clothes and rucksack.
‘That’s what I call a timely exit,’ he said, squeezing liquid from his pockets. ‘And don’t worry. I won’t complain about the water. Soggy chocolate is far more palatable than lightning-fried chocolate.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for supper talk later,’ Whisker said, stepping away from the lake. ‘Our immediate concern is getting off this beach and under cover before lightning-fried rat is added to the menu.’
Shelter from the Storm
With Horace at his heels, Whisker caught up with Ruby and Chatterbeak at the top of the beach. They stood waiting at the foot of an enormous limestone cliff. The dark wall of rock extended upwards and outwards, disappearing into the swirling blackness.
‘Which way?’ Ruby asked.
‘Preferably not up,’ Horace said. ‘I can’t even see the top of that monstrosity.’
‘We go left,’ Whisker said decisively. ‘The glacial stream isn’t far from here. If we’re lucky, it will lead us past the cliff and into the woods where we can find shelter.’
‘Now hold on one minute, Captain Reckless,’ Horace said, stamping his soggy boot in the snow. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting we stroll straight into Blackbird Wood, are you?’
‘Unless you have a better alternative, then yes,’ Whisker replied, turning to go. ‘No raven will be crazy enough to venture out in this weather.’
‘Maybe so,’ Horace conceded, falling into line. ‘But I’m not hangi
ng around once this storm has passed …’
Avoiding any further dissent, Whisker led the march around the foot of the cliff. The light of his lantern barely reached the snow-covered ground, making every step a potential accident. Hypothermia was beginning to set in and he struggled to stop his arms and tail from trembling uncontrollably. He knew that if he didn’t raise his body temperature soon he could easily lose his tail and toes to frostbite. Ruby’s ankle was making her life even more difficult and, after limping painfully at the back of the pack for some time, Whisker finally persuaded her to be carried on Chatterbeak’s back.
The cliff came to an abrupt halt near the rocky bank of the stream. The loud roar of rushing water almost drowned out the howl of the wind. Directly in front of them, a tall pile of river stones rose from the ground. Blanketed in white, the cone-shaped structure took on the appearance of a snowman in a wizard’s hat.
‘What is it?’ Horace shouted, his voice barely audible over the water and the wind.’
‘Caw, caw. It’s called a cairn,’ Chatterbeak shivered. ‘It marks the start of the trail up the mountain. Travellers add a stone on their ascent and remove a stone on their return.’
‘One stone on – one stone off,’ Horace said, contemplating the significance. He raised his eyes to the highest stone. ‘So why is the pile so big?’
‘I thought that was obvious,’ Ruby said from Chatterbeak’s back. ‘Many ascend the mountain. Few come down. It’s a dangerous path.’
Horace threw a small pebble on the pile and hurriedly stepped away. ‘I’ll be back for that rock …’
Using the cairn as their guide, the companions turned inland, hugging closely the low cliffs that lined the riverbank.
Their progress was slow and they had to find alternate routes when flashes of lightning revealed dead ends and paths leading into the turbulent stream. The snow fell thicker and heavier as they trudged along and they were quickly covered in a powder of white. Whisker could feel the icy crunch of graupel beneath his feet as his heavy boots sank through the soft snow.
It was when the snowfall appeared to be at its heaviest that Whisker first glimpsed the light. It hovered directly in front of him, round and pale, staring out of the darkness like an eye. At first he thought the circle of light was the moon finding its way through the dense layers of clouds and snow. But as he stepped closer, he realised that the light was shining directly from the face of a cliff.
Heart pounding, he raised his paw for his companions to stop.
‘What do you make of that?’ he whispered.
Ruby climbed down from Chatterbeak and moved to Whisker’s side.
‘It could be a trap,’ she said, staring at the yellow light. ‘Who knows what those crafty ravens are capable of?’
‘No, no,’ Chatterbeak chortled, shaking snow from his head. ‘Ravens live in nests. That light is shining through a window.’
Horace’s eyes lit up.
‘If there’s a window, then there’s sure to be a door,’ he said excitedly. ‘And doors lead to blazing fires and cosy couches and piping hot pies and –’
‘– cages for prying little rodents,’ Ruby hissed.
Horace shook his snow-encrusted hook at her.
‘Don’t be such a Little Miss Frozen Heart,’ he scoffed. ‘Sitting in a warm cage still beats freezing to death out here!’
‘You won’t be saying that when you find yourself inside that piping hot pie,’ Ruby retorted.
Horace stuck out his tongue. Ruby sent a glove-full of snow flying in his direction.
‘I think it’s worth the risk,’ Whisker said, struggling to revive his semi-frozen tail. ‘This storm isn’t letting up and I doubt we could start a fire even if we could reach the wood.’
‘Ha!’ Horace said in triumph, wiping snow from his face. ‘Hear that, Ruby? The boss is with me.’
Ruby responded by throwing a second lump of snow at him.
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Whisker scolded. ‘If it’s safety you’re worried about, Ruby, then one of us can knock on the door while the rest of us wait to see who comes out.’
‘I’ll go. I’ll go,’ Chatterbeak whistled. ‘I’ve had enough of this infuriating thundersnow. Besides, if I do encounter a raven or two, they’ll be far less likely to turn me into parrot pie.’
‘Alright,’ Ruby agreed, drawing one of her swords. ‘But the moment you sense trouble, give us a squawk.’
Chatterbeak bobbed his head and began waddling through the snow towards the light. Extinguishing their lanterns, the Pie Rats crept behind him, Horace to the left, Ruby and Whisker to the right.
As they neared the glowing beacon, the shape of a small door grew clearer. Flickering firelight streamed through a frosted glass window set into its centre. The door formed the entrance to a peculiar wooden structure jutting out from the face of the cliff. Constructed from hundreds of small logs butted up to the rock, the dwelling appeared to be part cabin and part cave, complete with its own chimney and pine bark roof.
A beaver’s lodge, Whisker thought, recognising the teeth marks on the ends of the logs. So much for a muddy squalor in the centre of a dam. These creatures are really living it up in style.
Maintaining a firm grasp on his weapon, Whisker crouched down in the snow next to the door.
‘Let’s see what we’re up against,’ Ruby whispered, squatting beside him.
As the anxious rats looked on, Chatterbeak tottered over to the door and rapped at the circle of glass with his beak. RAT-A-TAT-TAT.
There was a startled gasp from inside, followed by the sounds of hurried footsteps. With the click of a key and the THUD of a bolt, the door creaked open and a shaft of amber light spilled onto the snow.
The light was so bright that Whisker was forced to shield his eyes. When he managed to look up, he saw a rosy-faced beaver standing in the doorway. She wore a white apron with an assortment of cooking utensils protruding from its pocket. Her two front teeth vibrated up and down in a peculiar manner – almost as if she was gnawing on a log. In her paws she clutched the end of an enormous wooden ladle which she wielded like a battle club.
After a few seconds of staring at the snow-covered parrot, she lowered her ladle and called over her shoulder, ‘You’re never going to believe this, Gertrude, but there’s a parrot in a bright yellow raincoat standing at our door. Should I invite him in for a slice of pond weed pie?’
Gertrude and Viola
Pond weed pie wasn’t on Whisker’s list of top ten favourite pies (and it certainly didn’t feature in his top one hundred) so it came as a relief to learn that he wouldn’t have to gag his way through a slice for supper.
The beaver known as Gertrude, on having learned that three rats as well as a parrot were lurking outside, decided to save her prized pond weed for a more private occasion and insisted her sister, Viola (the beaver with the ladle) serve plain potato pie instead.
‘Winter is coming,’ Gertrude muttered from her rocking chair, ‘and we must be frugal if we are to survive till spring.’
Whisker wondered how much winter feasting she was planning to do. From where he sat thawing his toes near the fire, he could see straight into the overflowing pantry at the back of the lodge. The shelves contained more food than he had seen in his entire life. Boxes, barrels, bags and biscuit tins held every variety of savouries, sweets and beaver treats imaginable.
‘Prepare for the worst because it always comes,’ Gertrude repeated. ‘That’s my motto.’
How uplifting, Whisker thought to himself.
He wondered what other morbid mottos Gertrude lived by, or if she found secret enjoyment in being a sour puss. From the moment the companions had stepped out of the snow, she hadn’t stopped scolding them for doing something wrong.
‘Stop dripping on the carpet … Don’t shiver on the sofa … Keep your tail off the coffee table …’
He wasn’t one to think ill of others, but it was hard to find anything to like about the older of the two sisters.
Chatterbeak and Horace had quickly warmed to the younger of the two sisters. The gregarious Viola was as jolly as she was generous. She loved cooking and she loved talking and preferably both at the same time. The three of them chattered away like old friends as they prepared supper in the cosy kitchen.
Ruby hadn’t let her guard down and was sticking close to Whisker near the fire. Gertrude watched the pair of them suspiciously, a permanent frown etched on her brow.
Although Whisker had removed his coat on entering the lodge, he couldn’t shake the sick feeling that Gertrude was trying to place his face. In his attempt to conceal his criminal identity he resorted to smiling incessantly and brushing his soggy fringe to one side whenever Gertrude wasn’t looking. This proved to be a difficult task, considering Gertrude rarely turned away and said very little to warrant a smile.
It was during supper, when all of them were gathered around the large cedar table, that Gertrude finally broached the subject of their identities.
‘So,’ she said in a thin, raspy voice. ‘Tell me about yourselves. What brings you to the mountain?’
Chatterbeak stuck his beak in his pie. Ruby and Horace looked to Whisker for a response.
‘Family,’ Whisker said, having already prepared his answer. ‘We’ve come in search of my sister. She disappeared from our travelling circus troupe.’
Gertrude remained unemotional. ‘Ran away from the circus, did she?’
‘No,’ Whisker said, refusing to be intimidated. ‘The birds of prey are holding her prisoner.’
‘Oh dear,’ Viola gasped, dropping her fork. ‘We all know what that means. The full moon feast is only days away.’
‘Two nights, to be precise,’ Whisker said, glancing up at the moon-shaped window.
‘Can you reach her in time?’ Viola asked hopefully.
‘If we knew where to find her,’ Whisker said. ‘You wouldn’t, perchance happen to know where –?’
Child of the Cloud Page 7