The Huntress: Storm

by Sarah Driver

  ‘Your words are dust to me,’ I say calmly.  And I am ready for the next battle.

  Thaw-Wielder chats straight into my head.  ArmLAND!

  For a beat I watch myself from above, through her eyes. It’s the strangest feeling, like there’s a wormy cord threading out of my belly and connecting me to my hawk. I unfurl my wrist and she drops onto it, out of the immense nothing yawning over and around us, like someone high up has dumped a bucket of feathers and claws and quickness into the air. Even Lunda gasps as Thaw resettles her feathers, twitching her head around at them all.

  I smile. These kids are starting to know something about my fierce.

  ‘I’m not fazed by your tricks,’ says Lunda. ‘Soon, you will be dust, too. Only the strongest will survive this Withering.’ Her words wreath from her mouth like pale spekters.

  I push my face into Lunda’s. ‘Either rest your jaws, or say that again – if you dare.’ I can feel my magyk pulsing in my blood and in my gut and in my dark-gulping eyes. I could do anything in this beat.

  ‘Mama says that’s not how girls should act,’ quavers Ibex.

  I reply to her, not taking my eyes off Lunda’s. ‘Your mama needs to learn herself a thing or two.’

  Lunda’s eyes are like hard blue chips of ice. ‘What are you waiting for, sea-witch?’

  ‘I didn’t come here to fight, spear-flinger.’

  She stares at me and spills two words that sharpen the air. ‘Didn’t you?’

  This night belongs to us.

  I ent sure who moves first. But then all of a sudden the crypts are one giant tangled sweaty brawl and all I know is

  Fists

  Feet

  Eyelids

  Ribs

  And all we are is

  Clawed

  Punched

  Pulled

  Scrambled

  Laughing

  Yelling

  Thaw roosts atop a skull and screams encouragement, making my foes shudder.

  Fists to fists, we practise our fight for the end of the world, then someone steps on a lemming and it screams and we’re all falling about in stitches of laughter. Breath-clouds puff all over the crypt.

  The sharpness has been squeezed out of the air and it feels easier to breathe. Pangolin says something to Lunda and the Spearsister laughs, in a pure way I ent heard her do before. The sound gifts me heart-strength. She’s here now, like it or not. And if Pang trusts her, maybe I can learn to.

  Thaw, I chatter, while the others are still laughing and a few fights are still growling, keep watch for any sneaky blighters that look like beasts but don’t have chatter. I don’t want any spies down here.

  She screeches, lifting up into the air to start her patrol. Everyone turns to stare at me.

  I make my spine arrow-straight. ‘I called this secret meet cos we need a crew.’

  ‘What is a crew?’ asks Pika.

  I grin at him. ‘It’s everything – kinship, knowing how to weather storms together – storms in the world and storms in your heart. It’s having each other’s back, no matter what. It’s – it’s sharing heart-love for what matters most and gifting each other the heart-strength to fight.’

  ‘Pretty speech,’ snaps Lunda.

  ‘Why do we need a crew?’ asks a boy.

  ‘Naught’s going right round here. They tell us to let the full-growns save Trianukka. But who’s gonna save them?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demands Lunda. ‘You’re the one that endangered the whole Sneaking because of whatever’s going on up there.’ She gestures to the sides of her head and pulls a gruesome face.

  Crow steps towards her but I hold up a hand. Da said not to reveal my chatter. But how can you make a real crew if you ent honest with them? ‘It’s true that I’m a beast-chatterer, and that my chatter can overpower me.’ I pause, waiting for the whispers to fade. ‘But it means the beasts can tell me things we wouldn’t know elsewise. Like this now – something has happened to the Protector. Something bad.’

  Gasps rattle through the spaces between the bones.

  Pangolin steps forwards. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. But her draggle was spooked—’

  ‘So would you be if you flew through those storms,’ says Lunda.

  ‘It was more than the storms!’ I yell. ‘I heard her! She said missing rider, torn from back. Something happened to Leo. And now I’ve got to find a way to get to her, cos none of the full-growns believes me.’

  Lunda snorts. ‘Small wonder.’

  ‘If you don’t want to be crew, Lunda, that’s no blubber off my blade. But if there’s even a chance that something’s gone wrong, don’t you wanna be sure?’

  Lunda slides down the wall until she’s sitting cross-legged. She puts her face in her hands, saying nothing.

  ‘So . . . what do we do?’ whimpers Ibex.

  I blow out my cheeks. ‘First, I need to know who’s in. Raise your fist and thump your heart if you’re crewing up!’

  Slowly, one by one, each kid in the crypt steps forwards and thumps their chest. My heart glows. Lunda stands, keeping her eyes on mine.

  I swallow my pride though it snags in my throat. ‘Be part of our crew. Help us, Lunda.’ I hold my fist to my chest and she hesitates, big pale eyes wavering as the struggle under her surface rages.

  Then she swears in, too. But not without another challenge. ‘Who is leader of this crew ?’ Her accent clips the word and makes it whistle through her teeth like a birdcall.

  Pride punches my chest and stings my cheeks.

  ‘Oh, you?’ She laughs.

  ‘Course!’

  ‘Why am I not surprised that the sea-creeper seeks attention?’

  ‘You didn’t even know what a crew was—’

  ‘Hey, you two!’ says Pangolin. We turn to face her. She’s standing next to Pika and the two of them are chuckling into their hands. ‘Settle your feathers. There is room – sure, there is need – for more than one leader. I vote for one from each Sky-Tribe plus Mouse to represent the Sea-Tribes.’

  I study my boots. ‘Grand idea, Pang.’

  We cast votes and count them up. The three leaders are decided – me, Pika and Ibex.

  Pika strides into the middle of the crypt. ‘Our crew needs a plan. If the draggle spoke true, we have to get to the Wastes and find Leopard.’

  ‘How?’ asks Pang.

  Silence.

  ‘Take the draggles?’ suggests Hammer.

  ‘A few of us have weather-work,’ offers a Wilderwitch kid. ‘We could try to push the storms away from you.’

  ‘We can’t all go out there riding draggles. Someone would see!’ glooms Ermine.

  I nod.  But one girl . . .

  Crow catches my eye and frowns. I smile at him, but it’s a proper beam by accident. Too late, I try to wipe the look off my face but he scowls. Then he puts his mouth close to my ear. ‘Gone and had a terrible idea, have you?’

  I push him away, biting back my grin.  Aye. And I’ll make you help me with it. I’ll need a lookout. Who better than a boy who can take the shape of a harmless crow?

  I turn to Ermine. ‘Not if one girl took the journey. Alone.’ The thought makes fire stir behind my eyes and I have to breathe quick, my veins jumping with excitement.

  ‘Not alone,’ says Lunda impatiently.

  We look at her in surprise.

  ‘Haven’t any of you realised it yet?’ she says, voice bubbling with irritation. ‘Even if you got as far as the Frozen Wastes, the Fangtooths would sniff out a sea-creeper. But there’s one person at Hackles who’d be admitted into their territory, bold as daggers.’

  I meet her eyes. ‘Axe-Thrower!’

  Lunda bites the skin around her thumb, nods briskly.

  ‘But she’s a prisoner,’ says Pang. ‘She won’t be going anywhere.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ replies Lunda. ‘Unless we break her out.’

  Crow curses all over everyone’s shock.

  But
the hooks of Lunda’s idea dig into my skin. Cos what if the vision Sparrow had of me in a place of sleds and reindeer skin ent a destiny that will happen to me, but a destiny that I can choose for myself ? ‘That’s a flaming good idea!’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ warns Crow quickly. ‘Your da would never let you do a foolish thing like that.’

  And there they are. The words that decide it. ‘Da’s not here,’ I whisper.

  Lunda grins, eyes sparking. ‘Good girl.’

  The spark leaps into my chest and sets my heart drumming against my ribs.

  When a new day’s been birthed by the lighting of the lamps and I’m standing in line to get my breakfast, Kid gifts me a flint-eyed stare. ‘What’ve you been up to?’ She gestures to my split lip and the bruises cluttering my forearms.

  ‘Naught,’ I mutter, allowing myself the ghost of a smirk.  Just planning how to save all your skins.

  We make our plans. We keep them secret. We watch the routines of the cell guards and try to choose when to make our move. Over the next few nights we fight some more, cos it helps us put our trapped energies to good use. When I get back with Leo, all the crew will be better at fighting off enemies – and if something happens in the meantime, we’ll be prepared. I help them with their target practice, shooting arrows through the eye sockets of ancient skulls. Ibex teaches me handstands. I try it against a wall and Thaw settles on the soles of my feet, making me laugh upside down.

  We plug as many gaps in the stone of the stronghold as we can find, to stop spies wriggling through the rock. Ibex takes a group from our crew to help lay lemming traps – the cooks need the beasts for stew now, anyway.

  At supper, I realise heart-sadness is rolling off Thaw’s feathers. It prickles my eyes.  Thaw? What is it?

  Thawdon’tknowwhat’swhat. She shuffles her feathers. I know she’s not been eating proper, cos everything’s so topsy.

  Poor beast. I reach for her and she bows her head like a queen, until I can reach her feathers to give them a stroke.

  She looks down at me, tilting her head to one side. And I find myself pitching suddenly forwards, falling into her.

  My spirit pushes across the oaken table, skimming through the broth-steam, and thumps into feathers, burrows into skin, muscle, innards, bone, and then I’m blinking in a sticky way, and my nose feels curved, cold and sharp.

  I look down – and a squawk blows from my mouth. My feet are scaly, yellow and tipped with claws, one still snagged with fish-flesh from my hunt.

  Then I shuffle my feet. Open my wings. Enjoy the long stretch, dip my head under the feathers and preen away a lump of grit, some specks of salt, some blood.

  When I blink across the room, through vapours puffed out by wormsfishworms, I see a black-hair two-legs with her watching holes rolled back in her head.

  Wait.

  That’s me.

  How did I—

  A small, silvery shape flits around the girl’s head. Thaw’s spirit!

  I’m in her body! Somehow I must’ve pushed her out.

  How do I dream-dance back again? I shut Thaw’s eyes, feel for the edges of her body, then push forwards like an arrow. When I open my own eyes, Thaw spews a bellyful.

  Ouchhurtsouchhurtswobblyspinheadfly!

  She bolts in a cloud of silence.

  What have I done?

  Thaw disappears for the whole night.  She must be hunting. She won’t have left me. But I’m proper frighted, cos the other sea-hawks have gone on their winter migration. She only stuck around for me. And look what I’ve done. A tear nudges out of my eye but I scrub it away. In the back of my mind, there’s a feeling that my beast-chatter is even odder than I thought.

  I struggle to sleep. But I must’ve dropped into a restless doze, cos suddenly I’m woken by a rush of air on my face as Thaw swoops back through the arrow-slit into the chamber. I scramble onto my hands and knees in my bed.  Thaw, I chatter.  Thaw-beast, I’m so so sorry!

  Her silence charges the air.

  Thaw?

  Finally, she glides down from her nest to land on my pillow.  Nevermore, she croaks.  Never-do with no-warning.

  Never, Thaw! I promise. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do it – I don’t know what’s happening to me. Can we work it out together?

  She inclines her head.  Heart-love-forgive, feather deep, she says.

  Heart-thanks, Thaw, I choke, through my streaming tears.

  By morning bell, more folk have arrived at the stronghold. They straggle inside; hollow-eyed, some burned by black rain, half-starved and full-frightful. I’m squeezing past them, weaving between damp cloaks that cling to me, when I notice a ragged group standing near the doors, staring straight at me, their faces hidden by cavernous hoods.

  I wrinkle my nose and turn, trying to push through another way. But I don’t get far before a hand shoots free from the press of bodies and clamps onto my arm.

  ‘Get off me!’ I yell, kicking out. My boot makes contact with a shin.

  Someone yelps. ‘Mouse! Stop struggling, it’s me!’

  Then I look up into a pair of coppery eyes, and everything stops. The noise of the hall fades. Time stretches and slows.

  ‘Bear? ’ The tall, brown-skinned oarsman I’ve known all my life wears a claw-gouged cloak and a few new lines on his face. He’s thinner than I remember, and grey hairs pepper the black in his beard. But it’s him – solid as oak, and sunbeam-warm.

  Others squeeze through the crowd. First comes a curly-haired woman in bloodied skirts – Vole, the prentice who always used to scold me. The sea-sparkle has faded from her blue eyes, but a tiny bab is strapped to her chest in a cloth sling. Behind her steps a broad-shouldered almost-man with a mass of red hair and mossy green eyes. Frog! I gape at each member of the Huntress ’s crew in turn, then my heart leaps into my mouth and I jump into Bear’s arms.

  ‘Bear?’ I croak. ‘Bear!’ I shake my head in disbelief as he belly-laughs, gathering me close. Vole strokes my hair.

  ‘Frog and Vole, too!’ Never thought I’d be so heart-glad to see you! ‘And – who is this scrap?’ I stare at the top of the bab’s head.

  ‘This is our sweet daughter,’ says Vole proudly, nodding at Bear.

  ‘Mouse, dearest heart.’ Bear pulls away and looks at me, at my scar. ‘I thought of you every beat. I dreamed you were haunting me all the while I was chained to my oars.’

  I chew my cheek. ‘I did visit you, once or twice.’

  ‘Where can I take him?’ calls another voice I know, bones-deep.

  It’s Pipistrelle, the sandy-headed cook with a knife-stump for a hand. I wave as he breaks free from the crowd of homeless wanderers.

  ‘Mouse,’ says Bear, warning in his throat. ‘Just be ready to calm your sails.’

  There’s a bundle in Pip’s arms. A fair-haired man, too frail to be Da . . .

  Oh, no.

  ‘He’s going to be alright, Mouse,’ says Bear, holding me back.

  Pip’s eyes never leave my face. ‘Praise the sea-gods,’ he says. ‘Gritty as a pearl, you are.’

  ‘Aye. But is Da?’

  Pip nods. ‘Never doubt it, Bones. He’s way-worn, and his leg is injured beyond bearing his weight. But he will heal. So help me, after all this, he will.’

  In the long-hall, we sit before one of the huge, crackling fires. Pip casts wary eyes around the clattering room. Vole rests back with her bab sleeping on her chest. ‘Bear was freed by a member of Stag’s own crew,’ she tells me.

  ‘Why ?’ I gasp.

  ‘They needed my strength to help sail through the storms,’ says the oarsman, huddled under a goatskin. ‘Things have been going badly wrong at sea, Little-Bones. Stag has given up on his search for the Crown as the ice spreads. He is furious. But when he destroyed your grandma’s medsin lab he lost her inventions – risking more lives. He lost crew to sickness when Captain Wren never would have. He sailed to the ship-breaking yards. But our ship stuck fast in the ice just before we got there.’


  ‘Saved by the frozen sea . . .’ I whisper.

  ‘We tried to lead our own mutiny,’ growls Pip, fingers wrapped around a tankard of spiced rum. ‘Bear’s leg was badly bitten by a polar dog. We fought Stag, during a bad storm. We each knocked out a few of his teeth.’

  ‘Yes!’ I punch the air. Pip grins.

  ‘What happened after that?’ I ask.

  ‘When the storm shrank back, Stag and his cronies abandoned the icebound ship and took all supplies with them,’ says Pip bitterly. I notice all of a sudden that the knife on his stump is missing, leaving just a blunt stick of rags. ‘They took most of the crew to sell as slaves. They shot at Bear when he tried to go after them.’

  Bear nods. ‘We left with Vole—’

  ‘I’d hidden,’ she adds.

  ‘—and tried to find somewhere to rest and write a note that we hoped might reach the Icy Marshes, but the lawlessness everywhere kept us running for our lives. Then the bab came, and we put all our heart-strength into keeping her warm. Your da searched for us. We owe him our lives.’

  Pride swells in my chest, sharp and sweet.

  I talk with Vole in the still hours and cradle her bab, a smooth-faced, wise-looking thing with masses of black curly hair and a tiny, puckered version of Bear’s face that makes me smile. The firelight plays on her skin.

  ‘I want you to know something, Mouse,’ Vole says softly. ‘I never wanted to make you feel disapproved of.’

  ‘I know. I’ve done a lot of growing, since we last met.’

  ‘I can see that.’ She smiles. ‘I need your help, Mouse.’

  I stay silent, waiting.

  ‘We need a name for the bab. We’ve looked to the fire spirits, but they hide away and give us no answer. I want your help to coax them.’

  The fire spirits gift our Tribe visions of what our young ones’ namesake animals should be. ‘I’ve got a lot of learning to do, Vole,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘We all of us do. But I believe in you, Mouse. I always have.’

  After she’s finished her telling and I’ve done mine, I creep to the sawbones’ nest. Da’s awake and I gift a silent thanks to all the gods of Sea, Sky and Land.