BOOOM!

by Alan MacDonald

  Illustrations by Mark Beech

  Contents

  1 Making a Splash

  2 Dribble Dobble, Dib Dab

  3 Floaters and Sinkers

  4 Looking for Nonecks

  5 Wise Words

  6 All of a Lava

  7 The Wrath of Krakkk

  8 Things Can Only Get Wetter

  9 Rabbit Run

  10 Sink or Swim

  11 The High Life

  Long, long ago . . .

  Really ages ago. The world was a wild and barren place. There were no houses or shops, no schools or teachers, no cars, flushing toilets or peanut-butter sandwiches. So many things didn’t exist that to write them all down would fill every page of this book and leave no room for the story.

  If you want to imagine how the world was, imagine an endless landscape of mountains, forests, rocks and stones. In fact, stones lay everywhere, because this was . . .

  In the forests lived savage beasts – bears, snaggle-toothed tigers and woolly mammoths, which looked like elephants badly in need of a haircut. People generally avoided the forests. They lived together in tribes because it was safer that way and easier on the cooking. One such tribe was the Urks.

  The Urks were a warlike race with bushy beards and hairy legs – especially some of the women. Their clothes were made of animal skins and they lived in caves high on a hill, overlooking the Valley of Urk and the river winding through it. In one of these caves lived a boy called Iggy. He wasn’t the tallest or the hairiest in his tribe, but what he did have was imagination, and this got him into a whole heap of trouble. That of course is another story . . . Luckily it’s the story that’s about to begin . . .

  Chapter 1

  Making a Splash

  It had been raining solidly in the Valley of Urk for three days. Rain dripped from trees and noses and trickled down necks. The rain turned the hillside to mud and pattered in puddles the size of small lakes. The older Urks nodded their heads wisely and said it was the start of the rainy season (which came after the foggy season and before the cold season).

  Iggy was fed up with sitting in his cave, listening to the plip-plop of the rain and trying to keep the fire from going out. For the hundredth time he stood at the entrance peering through the steady drizzle. The dark clouds over the mountains were beginning to roll away at last leaving a bright patch of blue sky. In the valley below, the River Urk had risen high. To Iggy that meant one thing: swimming at Giant’s Rock.

  An hour later he said goodbye to his mum and set off down the hill, calling for his best friend, Hubba, on the way. Giant’s Rock was a little way downstream. It overlooked a bend in the river where the rocks cast long shadows over a deep pool. When they arrived there were already half a dozen Sons of Urk splashing and laughing in the shallows. Iggy waded into the cool green water to join them.

  ‘Hey! Watch this!’

  Iggy looked up. Someone was perched on the very top of Giant’s Rock, preparing to dive. It could only be Snark. Jumping off the rocks was a game the young Urks often played, daring each other to go higher and higher, but as usual Snark was showing off by choosing the highest rock of all. Giant’s Rock was so tall, just looking up at it made Iggy feel dizzy.

  Snark waved at them, satisfied he’d got the attention of his audience now. Backing up, he took a short run, raised his arms and sprang nimbly from the rock. He swooped down, spinning into a double corkscrew before entering the water as cleanly as a salmon. For a few seconds there was nothing to be seen but a circle of ripples, then Snark burst to the surface. He wiped his eyes and shook his head, spraying Iggy like a wet dog.

  ‘WOOO!’ he whooped. ‘See that?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ ‘Deadly!’ chorused the other Urks.

  Snark raised a hand to acknowledge their applause. He knew very well he was probably the best swimmer in the tribe – which wasn’t saying much since most Urks couldn’t swim at all. He smoothed back his glossy hair and went to sit on a rock.

  ‘Who’s next then?’ he asked.

  Iggy groaned inwardly. Why did everything with Snark have to be a competition?

  ‘What about you, pig-breath?’ said Snark, turning on Iggy.

  ‘Me? I’ve done it before. Loads of times,’ said Iggy.

  ‘Yeah? When?’

  ‘You know. That um . . . time when it rained. Remember, Hubba? We both did.’ Iggy nodded meaningfully at his friend, hoping he would back him up.

  Hubba frowned. ‘Did we? I don’t remember.’

  Snark folded his arms. ‘Well, here’s your chance, dung-brain. Show us.’

  ‘What – now?’ Iggy looked up at the towering brown rock. ‘Like you said, you done it loads of times. It’s easy. ’Less of course you’re scared.’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Go on, Iggy,’ said Hubba. ‘Show ’em.’

  Ten minutes later Iggy stood on top of Giant’s Rock, his head almost level with the tops of the trees. In the distance the grey mountains rose up with the craggy peak of Old Grumbly hidden in the clouds. Across the river the forest stretched away as far as the eye could see. On a clear day it was a glorious view – if you weren’t about to jump to your death. Iggy edged forward a few faltering steps and leaned out. The river below was a sickeningly long way down. He could see the others looking up at him, waiting to see if he would lose his nerve. He inched forward a little more, his legs starting to tremble.

  ‘JUMP!’ Snark’s shout echoed off the rocks.

  ‘You can do it, Iggy!’ shouted Hubba.

  Easy for you to say, thought Iggy. You’re not standing where I am. His palms were sticky with sweat and his heart beat madly like a drum. The green pool below didn’t look much to aim at. What if he didn’t jump out far enough and bounced off the jagged rocks? What if he forgot to hold his breath when he hit the water? He should never have let Snark talk him into this.

  ‘Get on with it! JUMP!’ yelled Snark.

  The others began to chant, their voices growing louder and faster.

  ‘JUMP! JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!’

  Iggy knew it was now or never. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the drop or the rocks or the possibility of drowning. Blowing out his cheeks, he ran at the edge. At the last moment he made the mistake of opening his eyes and looking down. Help! For a moment he tottered on the edge, one foot in mid-air and the other on the rock, his arms whirling furiously. Then . . . ‘WAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHHH!’

  SPLASH!

  Everything went dark green. Iggy glimpsed bubbles, clouds of weed and people’s legs – which looked funny underwater. Then his head broke the surface and he was gasping for breath.

  Snark was doubled up laughing.

  ‘HA HA! That were so funny! Your face!’

  Iggy ignored him. He swam a few ungainly strokes towards the bank, then waded the rest of the way before flopping down on the grass. He caught sight of some of the younger Urks doing impressions of how he hit the water – like a two-ton mammoth doing a bellyflop. No doubt Snark would enjoy telling the story around the fire tonight. Iggy lay down, dripping wet, waiting to get his breath back. At least he hadn’t chickened out in front of everyone. It was funny, he thought, the way you sort of shot back to the surface. Hubba joined him on the bank.

  ‘Great bellyflop,’ he said. ‘Deadly.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They were silent for a while, watching the river drift by.

  ‘Hubba, you ever wondered why things float?’ asked Iggy.

  Hubba wrinkled his nose. ‘Nope.’

  ‘We float. And fishes – you never see a fish sink.’

&
nbsp; ‘S’pose not.’

  ‘But why not?’ said Iggy. He picked up a small rock and tossed it into the river. It vanished with a loud plop!

  ‘See? A rock sinks.’

  ‘Can’t swim,’ grunted Hubba. ‘Rocks never learned.’

  Iggy shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with swimming. Some things float and some don’t. There must be a reason.’

  Hubba shrugged and lay down. Thinking always gave him a headache. But Iggy went on gazing at the river, making a list in his head.

  Wouldn’t it be something, thought Iggy, if you could float downriver on a leaf? Obviously a leaf couldn’t carry you, but a log would. Logs floated – as Iggy had once discovered when he was escaping from a tribe of angry Nonecks. But a log wasn’t safe. You had to hold on for dear life while it bobbed and rolled and threatened to tip you off. What he needed was something you could sit in – or on. A floater or boater or something. He shivered. Looking up, he saw someone standing over him casting a dark shadow. Snark. Why couldn’t the big blathermouth leave him alone? Iggy had never noticed before how thick and hairy his legs were – much like his head.

  ‘Not drowned then?’ said Snark. ‘Pity.’

  Snark plonked himself down beside Iggy, uninvited. Evidently he had something on his mind.

  ‘I hear he’s making his mind up,’ he said. ‘At long last.’

  ‘Who?’ said Iggy.

  ‘Hammerhead, of course. Hasn’t you heard? He’s choosing the next Chief tonight – at the Naming Ceremony.’

  Iggy sat up. This was news to him. He knew that his Uncle Ham had been grumbling lately that he was getting too old to be Chief, but he was always grumbling about something. Iggy had no idea he was actually thinking of naming his successor. He had heard his dad talk about the Naming Ceremony. The only time it happened was when a chief had no obvious successor. Hammerhead had only one daughter, Umily, and no sons, so no one was certain what would happen when he died and went to join the Ancestors. Some claimed Iggy’s dad (as Hammerhead’s brother) would become Chief, while others put forward various other names. Either way, it was for Hammerhead to decide by means of the ancient Naming Ceremony.

  ‘So who you reckon it’ll be?’ asked Snark.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Iggy. ‘What about Umily?’

  Snark snorted. ‘HER? She’s a girl!’

  ‘But still, she’s a Chief’s daughter.’

  ‘No,’ said Snark, dismissing the idea. ‘It’s got to be someone strong. Clever. Hairy. A proper Chief.’

  ‘Like who?’ said Hubba. Snark leaned forward.

  ‘Like my dad.’

  ‘Borg?’ Hubba laughed out loud. ‘You think Hammerhead’s gonna choose him?’

  ‘Oh he will, you’ll see,’ said Snark sourly. ‘When the Chief’s gone, my dad takes over, mark my words. And when he does, I’d watch out if I was you.’

  He gave them a dark look and strode off, collecting his spear from the rocks. Hubba watched him climb the hill. ‘Slugface,’ he remarked.

  ‘Don’t listen to ’im, Iggy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Iggy. All the same he felt a little uneasy about the Naming Ceremony. He hoped that Hammerhead knew what he was doing.

  Chapter 2

  Dribble Dobble, Dib Dab

  It looked like the whole tribe had turned out for the Naming Ceremony. Most of them had never attended one before, as Hammerhead had been Chief for what seemed like for ever. As darkness fell, they gathered by the Standing Stone. A crackling fire lit the filthy, hairy faces on the front row, where many of the women had taken their place. Everyone was eager to find out who would be chosen as the next High Chief, the one who would eventually step into Hammerhead’s shoes (at least if he’d had any shoes).

  Iggy looked round the ragged circle, wondering which of them would be chosen. The six wrinkled elders were there, although Sedric had already dozed off, as usual. Iggy’s dad sat on the Chief’s left, wearing a worried expression. Hammerhead stepped into the firelight and raised his hand to command silence.

  ‘Friends, brothers, sisters, Urks,’ he said, hoping that covered just about everyone. ‘As you know, I has been your Chief for a good many years. Some might say I been a good Chief, perhaps even a great one . . .’ He paused in case anyone wanted to cheer – they didn’t. ‘But no Chief lives for ever, not even me. The day will come when I can’t . . . um . . . do the things a Chief does.’

  The Urks looked blank. As far as they could tell a Chief slept till noon and helped himself to gigantic helpings of roast meat. It didn’t exactly seem like a heavy burden.

  Hammerhead pressed on regardless. ‘That is why I has decided to name the Chief who’ll come after me. One of you must lead the tribe of Urk into the new dawn.’

  Across the circle, Iggy caught sight of Snark wearing a confident smirk. Iggy remembered what he’d said by the river. If Borg, his father, ever became Chief they had better watch their backs.

  Iggy had wondered if the ceremony would include some trial of strength or hunting skills, but it turned out the Chief would be chosen in the traditional Urk way – with the aid of a blindfold and a pointy stick. Hammerhead had the stick in his hand now and was dipping it into a bowl of red gunk that looked like the innards of a pig. He held up the stick for everyone to see, dripping sticky red globs into the dust.

  ‘Whoever is marked with the blood, he shall be Chief!’ he declared. Borg came forward to blindfold him with a strip of hide. When it was done he held up three fingers in front of the Chief’s face.

  ‘How many fingers does you see?’

  ‘Twelve!’ said Hammerhead, taking a wild guess. Borg nodded, satisfied that everything was in order. He stood behind the Chief to tighten the blindfold one last time.

  ‘Choose wisely,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Listen for my cough.’

  ‘Your cloth?’ said Hammerhead.

  ‘My cough, you deaf clod!’ hissed Borg. ‘I’ll cough twice. Don’t forget.’

  He gripped Hammerhead by the shoulders and spun him round three times so that there could be no accusations of cheating. Borg then retired to take his place in the circle, leaving Hammerhead alone in the middle clutching his sticky stick. All that spinning round had made the Chief dizzy and he staggered to one side. Somewhere behind him the fire crackled and he made a mental note not to burn his bottom like the last time he was blindfolded.

  Standing in the circle, Iggy watched as the Chief took a few unsteady steps forward. He waggled the stick in front of him and spoke the words of the ancient ceremony:

  Ip dip my little stick,

  Dribble dobble, dib dab,

  Which one’s IT?

  The Chief kept walking, heading straight for a young Urk called Pud, who was nobody’s idea of a future Chief. Someone in the circle coughed loudly. Hammerhead seemed to hear it because he suddenly changed direction, lurching to his right. He took three or four paces and stopped – right in front of Snark’s father. Iggy held his breath. Surely he wasn’t going to choose Borg of all people – Borg, who regarded Hammerhead and everyone else as blundering idiots? Borg, who had once left a deadly black scorpion in the Chief’s cave claiming he thought it was a crab?

  Iggy could hardly bear to watch as the dripping stick reached out just short of Borg’s forehead and paused. Very slowly, so as not to make it obvious, Borg began to lean forward to meet it. All his life he had waited for this moment and now finally it had arrived. He coughed again. Suddenly the stick jerked away and Hammerhead was off, wandering around blindly again. Halfway round the circle he stopped as if obeying some inner voice. Iggy watched in alarm as he took three paces forward. He was heading straight towards . . . argh! Towards him! The blobby stick reached out . . .

  ‘OUCH!’ said Iggy as it poked him in the nose, leaving a sticky red mark.

  ‘The
Spirits have chosen!’ cried Gaga the Wise. Hammerhead pulled off his blindfold.

  ‘IGGY!’ he beamed, clasping him in a bear hug.

  ‘Iggy?’ chorused several voices.

  ‘Iggy?’ seethed Borg, crimson with rage.

  Iggy looked at the faces in the circle, all staring at him in bug-eyed disbelief.

  ‘Um . . . best of three?’ he said.

  Back in his cave, Borg stamped up and down, kicking a bone out of his way. He wasn’t a patient man, as everyone knew, but this time Hammerhead had pushed him too far.

  ‘Iggy?’ he fumed. ‘That runty little scroggler? It’s his nephew, for the love of Urk!’

  Snark sighed. ‘It were just bad luck!’

  ‘Luck my eye!’ thundered Borg. ‘Hammerhead did this on purpose. He cheated!’

  ‘You wanted him to cheat,’ Snark pointed out.

  ‘Of course I did. He were meant to pick me! I explained it to him clear as mud. But the fathead walked right past me.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t see you,’ suggested Snark.

  ‘He were wearing a blindfold, dung brain. How could he see me?’

  Snark shrugged. ‘I don’t know. How come he seen Iggy? How did he cheat?’

  Borg growled and turned away. All he knew was that he had been robbed – robbed by a skinny little brat who shouldn’t be in charge of an ants’ nest. For years he had slaved for this, plotted and schemed to become Chief – and now, just when the prize was in his grasp, it had been snatched away by a low-down, filthy trick. The worst of it all was Iggy was still a boy – he might be Chief for years. No, Borg decided – Hammerhead wouldn’t get away with this. He would pay.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he said. ‘We has to get rid of them.’

  ‘You mean kill ’em?’ said Snark hopefully. ‘Iggy too?’

  ‘’Course him too. The question is how? It has to be done clever and quiet. No one must suspect.’

  ‘I could drop a boulder on Iggy’s head,’ suggested Snark.