by Paul Stewart
‘I mean, far be it from me to say I told you so,’ he continued, ‘but … well … If we had left the ironwood, as I suggested … The price of the stuff is plummeting anyway at the moment.’ There was a pause, and a sigh. ‘If we had left it, we wouldn't have been anywhere near the storm.’
‘Near the storm,’ growled Mugbutt.
‘Still. Who am I to argue with fate? If the command of the ship was destined to fall upon my shoulders, I must accept my responsibility with…’ He searched for the right word.
Mugbutt filled the silence. ‘Responsibility with…’
‘Oh, do stop interrupting me!’ Slyvo snapped. ‘You are brave in battle, Mugbutt, don't get me wrong; a credit to your tribe. But you lack any sense of occasion.’
‘Occasion,’ Mugbutt repeated.
Slyvo grunted impatiently. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let's break the glad tidings to the others.’
Tem could remain still no longer. ‘Treacherous dog,’ he growled as he burst through the undergrowth and into the clearing. The Stone Pilot, Mugbutt and Slyvo Spleethe all spun round.
‘My dear Tem,’ said Slyvo, his disappointment turning instantly to a tight-lipped smile. ‘And Spiker. You two made it too.’
Twig held back; watching, listening.
‘He ought to be chained up,’ said Tem, pointing at the flat-head goblin. ‘Cap'n's orders.’
Slyvo lowered his head coyly and fiddled with one of the knots in his moustache. ‘The thing is,’ he whimpered, looking up over his glasses. ‘As I was just saying to Mugbutt here, our illustrious captain, Quintinius Verginix, is…’ He looked round theatrically. ‘Not here.’ He smirked. ‘And Mugbutt does so enjoy his freedom.’
Tem grunted. For the time being, at least, there was nothing he could do. ‘What state is the ship in?’ he asked.
Slyvo looked up. ‘How's it going, Stope?’ he called.
‘OK,’ came a voice, which squeaked as it spoke. ‘Superficial damage, mainly. The rudder's taken a hammering. But nothing I can't fix.’
‘Will she soon be sky-worthy?’ said Slyvo impatiently.
A head poked out from the overhead foliage. A hard bullet-head it was, with a close-fitting metal frame over the skull which held a bolted jaw in place. ‘She won't be sky-worthy till we get the flight-rock back in place,’ he said.
Slyvo grimaced and stamped his feet sulkily. ‘Can't you improvise? Lufwood, bloodoak – they rise. Just burn more…’
Stope Boltjaw tutted and shook his head. ‘Can't do it,’ he said. ‘You could never contain a fire the size it would have to be to achieve the required lift, and besides…’
‘There must be something you can do!’ Slyvo screamed. ‘I still don't understand why the blasted rock fell in the first place.’
‘Coz it was struck by lightning,’ said Stope Boltjaw.
‘I know that, you idiot!’ snapped Slyvo. ‘But…’
‘Cold rock rises, hot rock sinks,’ Stope continued patiently. ‘Scientific fact. And I'll tell you another scientific fact. What heats up, cools down. If you lot don't find that flight-rock before much longer, it'll have floated off for ever. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got the cradle-moorings to repair – just in case you should find it.’ His head disappeared back behind the leafy branches.
Slyvo bit into his lips. The blood drained from his face. ‘You heard him,’ he snarled. ‘FIND THE FLIGHT-ROCK!’
Spiker and Mugbutt turned and hurried off. The Stone Pilot plodded after them. Tem Barkwater held his ground.
‘Well?’ Slyvo demanded.
‘I might be able to tell you where the rock is. On one condition. When it's back in place, we wait for the cap'n.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ said Slyvo. ‘I give you my word.’ He reached out and shook Tem by the hand.
From his place in the undergrowth, Twig saw the quartermaster's other arm swing round behind his back. The hand was missing two fingers, and the raw scars looked recent. The two remaining fingers were stiffly crossed.
Tem nodded. ‘I aim to ensure that you keep your word,’ he said. He turned away. ‘Twig,’ he called out. ‘Are you there, lad? Come out where I can see you.’
Twig stood up and stepped forwards.
‘A spy!’ hissed Slyvo.
‘A witness,’ said Tem. ‘To what you promised.’ He turned to Twig. ‘Do you know where the flight-rock landed?’ he asked. Twig hesitated. He glanced up at Slyvo Spleethe. ‘It's all right,’ Tem assured him.
Twig nodded. ‘I know, all right,’ he admitted. ‘I saw it. Like a shooting star it looked – well, a dropping star. A falling star…’
‘Get on with it!’ said Slyvo sharply.
Twig blushed. He was talking too much. But he couldn't help it. The whiff of adventure about the rough and rugged sky pirates quickened his heart and loosened his tongue. He turned away from Slyvo's intense gaze and started walking. ‘It's this way,’ he said.
‘Hey, you lot,’ Slyvo Spleethe called out to Spiker, Mugbutt and the Stone Pilot. ‘Follow us.’
Twig led the ragtag rabble of pirates back through the forest. The way looked familiar in the swaying lamplight. He first heard, and then saw the humming combbush. He marched up to it and parted the branches. The stone was still there, embedded in the ground. It glowed a deep buttery yellow.
‘It was white before,’ said Twig.
‘It's cooling down,’ said Tem. ‘The trick will be to get it back to the sky ship while it's light enough to carry, but heavy enough not to fly away.’
Slyvo turned to the Stone Pilot. ‘You are responsible for transporting it,’ he said.
From deep within the Stone Pilot's pointed hood came a grunt of acknowledgement. He lumbered forwards, crouched down and embraced the rock in his broad arms. The sleeves and front of his fireproof coat hissed. Twig sniffed. The air smelt of scorched mud. The Stone Pilot heaved and strained, and the glass panels at the front of his hood misted over. But the flight-rock did not budge.
‘Empty your water flasks onto it,’ said Tem.
‘Yes,’ Slyvo said, remembering his new responsibilities. ‘Empty your water flasks onto it.’ He and the others began pouring water onto the glowing stone. Where it landed, the water hissed and turned the rock a shade of orange. ‘More!’ Slyvo commanded.
The sky pirates trotted off, returning soon after with their flasks refilled. Little by little, the rock turned a rich deep red. It began to wobble in its earthy setting. The Stone Pilot tried again. This time the rock came out of the ground with a soft ssss-quap.
Staggering under the weight and wheezing, the Stone Pilot trudged back to the clearing. The others tramped after him. Because of the intense heat radiating from the rock, there was nothing they could do to help, nothing but hope and pray.
The hull of the sky ship came into view. ‘We've got it, Stope,’ Tem called ahead. ‘We've got the flight-rock.’
‘I'll be ready directly,’ Stope Boltjaw shouted back, and Twig again noticed the squeaking sound as he spoke. ‘I'm just making sure the grappling hooks and anchor are secure,’ he said. ‘Wouldn't want her leaving without us.’
The Stone Pilot grumbled. The cooling rock was threatening to slip out of his grasp at any moment.
‘Have you rigged up the cradle?’ Slyvo called up.
‘What do you take me for?’ came the irritated reply. ‘Of course I have! I used some of the ironwood. It's less buoyant than lufwood or bloodoak, but more fire-resistant – in case the rock's still too hot.’
The Stone Pilot grunted urgently.
‘It's rising!’ Spiker yelled.
Stope Boltjaw's head appeared out of the tree. ‘Can you climb with it?’ he asked.
The Stone Pilot shook his head and groaned. It was all he could do to keep the increasingly buoyant rock in his grasp.
‘In that case,’ Stope called down. ‘We'll go for plan B. But it'll need pinpoint accuracy if it's going to work. The Stone Pilot will have to get the rock directly beneath the cradle before releasi
ng it. So, left a couple of paces…’
The Stone Pilot shuffled awkwardly to the left.
‘Stop. Forwards a tad. STOP! Back a bit. Left. Back a bit more.’ Stope paused. ‘That should do it,’ he whispered. ‘When I say now, let the rock go – but be careful not to nudge it when you do.’
Twig peered up into the tree. He saw Stope Boltjaw open the door of a cage-like contraption attached to the centre of the hull. He held it open with his foot and raised a long harpoon ready.
‘Now!’ he called.
The Stone Pilot gently released his load. For a moment, the rock hovered in the air. It rotated. Then it began to rise, slowly at first, but soon gathering speed. Twig saw Stope Boltjaw bracing himself against a branch. The rock came closer. It was going to miss the cradle! Stope leaned forwards and gently prodded the rock with his harpoon. It shifted slightly to the left, and continued rising.
‘Come on, come on,’ Slyvo urged the flying rock. He turned to Mugbutt. ‘If he does it, I want everyone on board at once,’ he hissed. Twig listened closely. ‘And if Tem Barkwater objects,’ he went on, ‘deal with him, Mugbutt. OK?’
KER-DONK! The stone landed in the cradle. SLAM-CLICK. Stope Boltjaw kicked the door shut with his foot. He bent down and secured the catch. ‘Done it!’ he roared triumphantly.
Twig's heart fluttered. The wonderful pirate ship was sky-worthy once more, and he whooped and cheered with the rest.
‘This shall not go unremembered, Stope Boltjaw,’ Slyvo announced. ‘Well done!’
‘Yes!’ came a second voice, deep and sonorous. ‘Well done!’
Everyone spun round.
‘Cap'n!’ Tem Barkwater grinned. ‘You made it!’
‘Indeed I did, Tem,’ came the solemn reply.
Twig gazed at the captain. He looked magnificent. He was tall and, unlike the stooping Slyvo Spleethe, stood upright, proud and elegant. His side whiskers were waxed, and a black leather patch stretched across one eye. From his long pirate's coat hung a multitude of objects: from goggles and telescope to grappling irons and daggers. By his side was a long curved cutlass, which glinted in the silver moonlight. Twig started. Hadn't he seen such a cutlass before, with its jewelled handle and nick in the blade?
Just then, an eighth figure emerged from the undergrowth. Twig stared. It was a banderbear, though quite different from his old friend, for this one was white with red eyes – an albino. It pulled the dead body of a hammelhorn from its shoulder and let it fall to the ground. Then it took its place behind the captain.
‘Ah, Hubble,’ the captain said. ‘Just who I wanted to see. Take the flat-head and chain him up.’
The banderbear pointed up to the sky ship. ‘Wuh?’ it said.
‘No,’ said the captain. ‘To a tree. But a strong one, mind.’
Mugbutt snarled and raised a fist in defiance. The banderbear swatted it away and seized the chain round the goblin's neck, almost lifting him off his feet.
‘Easy, Hubble,’ ordered the captain.
The banderbear lowered its arm and jerked the chain. Mugbutt was led away.
‘Do you think that is altogether wise, sire?’ came the whining voice of Slyvo Spleethe. ‘Here we are in the Deepwoods. Anything might be out there … Mugbutt could be useful in case of a surprise attack.’
The captain turned and fixed Slyvo with his good eye. ‘Do you think I cannot read your mutinous heart, Spleethe?’ he said. ‘Your friends in the Undertown League of Free Merchants are no use to you out here in the Deepwoods. We're an independent crew, and I give the orders. One more word and I'll have you sky-fired. Do I make myself clear?’
‘What's sky-fired?’ Twig whispered to Spiker.
‘Tied to a branch of burning bloodoak,’ the oakelf whispered back. ‘You go up like a rocket, screaming all the way.’
Twig shuddered.
‘We'll stay here the night and depart at first light,’ the captain was saying. He turned to Tem. ‘Right then, ship's cook,’ he said, kicking at the dead hammelhorn. ‘Get cooking!’
‘Aye-aye, cap'n,’ said Tem keenly.
‘Spiker, plot us a route back to Undertown. I don't want to be stuck in these accursèd woods any longer than necessary.’ He looked up. ‘How much longer will you need to effect repairs, Boltjaw?’
‘A couple of hours, cap'n,’ came the reply. ‘I've just got to chamfer the new bidgits and realign the rudder pins…’
‘And the Stone Pilot?’
‘He's down in the engine room re-boring the flange ducts.’
‘Excellent work,’ said the captain. He turned and looked down at Twig.
And it was at that moment that Twig knew for sure that he had met the captain before. It was the eye-patch which had stopped him recognizing him at once. He was the one Tuntum and he had met all that time ago in the forest when his woodtroll father had been trying to set him up with a job. The tall elegant sky pirate with his jewelled sword – with the nick in the blade. How could he have forgotten?
‘Why are you just standing there gawping?’ the captain barked. ‘Help the others with the fire.’
Twig set to work at once. He dashed into the forest to collect kindling. When he returned, however, the fire was already ablaze, roaring and crackling. With every log that Spiker and Tem Barkwater tossed onto the fire, a mighty shower of orange sparks filled the air. The fire sang and groaned and hissed with the different woods. Occasionally a piece of blazing lufwood floated up from the flames and soared off into the sky like an emergency flare.
Twig shuddered. Growing up with the woodtrolls, he had been taught to respect fire – the most treacherous necessity of all to a forest-dweller. That was why they burnt buoyant woods in stoves. The sky pirates’ carelessness appalled him.
He was busy kicking burning branches back into the main blaze when Hubble returned from chaining Mugbutt securely to the tree. It was looking for the captain, yet as it passed Twig, it paused.
‘Wuh!’ it bellowed, and pointed at the tooth around Twig's neck.
‘I wouldn't go too near Hubble if I was you,’ Tem Barkwater called. ‘It's an unpredictable beast at the best of times.’
But Twig took no notice. Despite the white banderbear's ferocious appearance, there was a familiar sadness in its eyes. It stretched out a claw and gently touched the tooth.
‘T-wuh-g,’ it growled.
Twig stared back in amazement. Hubble knew who he was. He remembered the times his old friend had yodelled to the moonlit sky. He remembered the yodelled replies. Could it have been Hubble's desolate cry that Twig had heard the night the banderbear had died?
Hubble touched its chest and then pointed to Twig. ‘Fr-uh-nz,’ it said.
Twig smiled. ‘Friends,’ he said.
At that moment, there came the sound of the captain's angry voice. He wanted Hubble, and he wanted him now. Hubble swung round and plodded off obediently. Twig looked up to see Tem Barkwater staring at him in disbelief.
‘I swear I have never seen the like in all my born days,’ he said. ‘Friends with a banderbear! Whatever next?’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, young'un,’ he said. ‘Help me over here.’
Tem was standing by the fire. Having expertly skinned the hammelhorn, he had skewered it on a length of ironwood and placed it above the flames. The air was now thick with the smell of roasting meat. Twig joined him, and the pair of them turned the spit round and round, round and round.
By the time that Stope Boltjaw announced he had finished his repairs and came down from the tree, the hammelhorn was cooked. Tem banged a gong.
‘Grub's up!’ he called.
Twig sat down between Tem Barkwater and Spiker. The captain and Hubble were opposite them, with Slyvo Spleethe sitting back a little, in the shadows. The Stone Pilot hadn't appeared, and Mugbutt the flat-head goblin, still chained to a tree, had to make do with the scraps he was thrown.
As the sky pirates filled their empty stomachs with black bread and steaming chunks of hammelhorn meat, washed down with mugfuls of
woodale, their spirits lifted.
‘Of course,’ laughed Tem Barkwater, ‘we've been in worse scrapes than this, ain't we, cap'n?’
The captain grunted. He didn't seem to feel like talking.
‘Why, that time we raided the league ships over Sanctaphrax itself. Never thought we'd get away with it. Cornered we were, nowhere to run, and a boarding party of wild flat-head goblins with murder on their minds popping up out of the cargo holds of those big, fat league ships. Never seen Spleethe shake so much – nor run so fast, neither. Kept saying, “There should have been liverbirch in the holds!”…’
‘And so there should,’ muttered Slyvo. ‘Would have made us all a packet, too…’
‘But the captain wasn't running, oh no, not him – not Cloud Wolf,’ Tem chuckled. ‘He just pulled out that great sword of his and set about the lot of them, Hubble following on behind. It was murder all right, but not the kind those goblins had in mind. That's where we got Mugbutt. Only one left standing. Mighty good fighter, but needs watching … It's also where the captain lost ‘is eye. Fair exchange, he calls it.’
‘Enough, Tem,’ sighed the captain.
‘It weren't no fair exchange when I lost my jaw,’ broke in Stope Boltjaw, his ironwood replacement squeaking as he spoke. ‘Had my back turned attending to the grappling socket. Ulbus Pentephraxis creeps up behind me with a hunting axe. I never stood a chance.’ He spat into the fire. ‘He's now a league captain living the life of luxury in Undertown. Leaguesmen!’ He hawked and spat again.
‘Oh, they're not so bad,’ wheedled Slyvo Spleethe, shifting closer to the fire. ‘Now when I was starting out in Undertown as…’