Jessie let his words wash over her. What did David Morgan mean, though, he wouldn’t ‘be here long’? Was he on holiday? You’d hardly go to the trouble of enrolling in a school just for a holiday. And his aunt had been weird.
The mystery of it helped her forget about being the new girl in school and the tight knot in her stomach started to unwind.
CHAPTER 9
Storm couldn’t quite believe the humans had all gone out and abandoned him. Not that he cared – he was Storm of Odin who hunted lightning and ran with the thunder. Human company meant nothing to him – and anyway Jessie had said she’d be back soon. It pleased him that she was taking suitable care of his needs. And until she returned he had the whole house to himself, a silver bowl with food and one with water (not real silver, but you had to make allowances when you were dealing with humans). Also, a rug to chew on, and Jessie had left one of her sweaters over the back of a chair so he could pull it on to the floor and lie on it. What more could a young stormhound want?
But even the perfect situation can become tiresome if nothing changes, and soon Storm became restless, which was when he discovered that Jessie or her Dad had accidentally shut the door, trapping him in the room!
He pawed at the bottom of the door, growling at it to open, but it refused.
A flash of tabby fur appeared on the window sill outside.
A fine morning for hunting, Nutmeg said, sitting down to clean her whiskers. Storm barely heard her through the glass, but her smug expression was unmistakeable. I see you’re keeping your magic under control, she said. Well done. Most humans really don’t like to think there’s magic in the world.
Most humans, Storm repeated. You mean, some do?
One or two, maybe, the cat said, shrugging. I’ve never met one. You don’t need to worry – you’re safe here.
Safe? Impertinent cat. Open the window so I may hunt with you.
I don’t hunt with anyone. I am the cat who walks alone, Nutmeg said. That comes from a book, you know.
Do I look like I care? He didn’t need a cat to assist him. Storm turned back to consider the door. It was smooth on the inside and operated by a simple, straight handle, unfortunately at human height and therefore unreachable in his current state. He jumped at it anyway, growling in frustration as his paws just caught the end of it and slid off.
You’ll never open the door like that, the cat said.
I’m not listening to you.
Of course you’re not. I’m only a cat. Who cares that I’ve lived on this earth a mere fourteen years and seven months, while you fell out of the sky, what, last week? What could I possibly teach you? You should pay attention to how the humans do things, by the way. They’ve got stupid bodies, balancing along on two legs, but they’re always building tools to make up for it.
He didn’t need tools; he needed to be bigger, have more height. He was a stormhound, not a helpless puppy.
Watch this, cat. Storm turned and walked to the far side of the room, crouched down, tensed every muscle in his body and sprang.
His body still remembered how to fly, sort of. His paws left the ground. Storm gave a yip of triumph. He hit the door hard, kicking the handle down with his back paws.
That was when he discovered the door opened inward.
Storm bounced off the wood, turned what felt like at least five somersaults and crash-landed head-first on to the rug. He lay dazed, blinking away stars and making sure none of his limbs were broken. He didn’t look at the cat: he knew she’d be laughing. As if cats never fell off things.
He picked himself up and shook himself. Tools. Looking about, he saw one of those flappy things humans used for hiding from rain. The thicker end was flimsy but the other end had a hook. Storm carried it to the door and, after several tries, he hooked it over the door handle. The cat watched from the window sill with annoying interest.
Not bad, little disciple.
I am not your disciple. And I am not little!
Whatever. Nutmeg flicked her tail at the glass. I think the umbrella is breaking, by the way.
What’s an umbrella? The flimsy end of the rain-shelter tore, but he kept a good grip and pulled downward until the handle turned. The door creaked open. Storm dropped the broken rain-shelter and stood back, his tail wagging.
Better not let the humans find out you did that, Nutmeg advised through the window. Humans get funny about that sort of thing.
Much as he hated agreeing with a cat, the creature was probably right. Humans did seem to think they were the only ones who could do anything in this world. Storm returned the broken rain-shelter to its corner, then, giving himself a little shake, he padded out of the room to explore.
It was much more fun doing this without the humans hovering over him and moving him away from things, Storm discovered. Everything smelled too human, but that was easily fixed with a bit of scratching and rolling about.
There were plenty of soft places to sleep, especially upstairs. He lay down on all of them in turn to see which one he preferred, then he tried out a wooden rack of shoes by the front door. It wasn’t Storm’s fault that it broke when he jumped on it. Humans ought to build better furniture. They should build better shoes too, he thought, nosing through the pile. Not a single steel-armoured boot to try his teeth on.
After some taste-testing, he selected a furry cloth shoe that smelled of Jessie and he took it into the front room to chew on while he watched the street.
He still felt oddly empty. Guarding the house gave him something to do, but it wasn’t like home. No clamour of voices and armoured feet stamping over stone floors, no sudden clash of weapons, not even the crackle and spit of a fire. All was silent.
Occasionally someone walked by outside and Storm sat up to watch them but no one challenged him. Even the shouting Valkyrie-Lady from next door walked past with barely a glance at him.
Not so brave when you’re on your own, are you? Storm barked after her. She didn’t look back and he lay down with a sigh.
The morning passed. Storm was dozing quietly, the shredded remains of the shoe between his paws, when he heard whistling. Opening his eyes, he saw a man striding up the short path to the house, a large bag hanging from a strap over one shoulder.
Storm leaped up. A thief! Come to fill his sack with treasure while the humans were away. Thank Odin, Storm was here to stop him.
Storm kicked the bits of shoe aside and jumped at the window. I am Storm of Odin, temporary guardian of this dwelling. Leave your bag of treasure and flee my wrath before I smite you.
Stupid glass. It looked flimsy, but his claws didn’t even make a scratch on it. And outside, instead of running for his life, the thief paused, raised a hand in greeting and said some words Storm couldn’t make out for the sound of his own barking. He was pretty sure they included the word ‘puppy’.
Puppy? That’s it. Prepare yourself for battle.
The glass still wouldn’t break. Storm raced out of the room to the front door and flung himself against it, barking madly. His shadow filled the hallway. This was more like it. He was Storm of Odin, defender of the humans who lived here and no thief would get past him.
The metal flap in the door rattled and several objects fell through, one of them landing on Storm’s head. He shook it off and stamped on it.
‘Good dog,’ he heard the thief say, and then rapid footsteps, fading as the intruder retreated.
Victory!
Storm bayed in triumph. But the danger was not over yet. Thieves were tricksy creatures and the things that had come through the door might contain some deadly enchantment. Storm nosed through them. Floppy rectangles made of paper that crackled satisfyingly as he chewed. He couldn’t smell any magic on them, but you couldn’t be too careful.
After several minutes of hard work, Storm sat back and surveyed the remains of the things littered across the hall carpet. Much better. The humans ought to do something about that flap in the door – it was most unsafe.
CHAPTER 10
So far, the morning had been an odd mix. Jessie had got through the introductions in her form room. Some of the girls had wanted to know why she wasn’t living in London with her mum and Jessie hadn’t known quite what to say. But David had jumped in to talk about his adventures around the world with his aunt and their motorbike, and people had soon lost interest in Jessie.
Now Jessie sat sketching a portrait of Professor Nuffield in her exercise book while David sat next to her, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes half closed, nose twitching from time to time as Professor Nuffield talked. Jessie tried not to stare at the professor’s moustache – it was dark blond, speckled with grey, almost the width of his plump face, and it wobbled in time with his words. His eyebrows wobbled too, but not so obviously. Jessie drew them extra bushy, adding thick lines with her pencil.
Professor Nuffield drew a final squiggly line on the board, joining up the Welsh coastline, and stood with one hand in his jacket pocket. ‘Of course, any sensible person knows that magic has long since fled to the fringes of our world, along with the old gods and their stories. But some people say the Otherworld – the realm of Annwn as it’s known in these parts – lies just out of mortal sight, waiting to be discovered by those who know how to see it. And, if the conditions are right, you might stumble into it without even knowing.’
A girl put up her hand. ‘Sir, what does this have to do with geography?’
‘Far more than you’d think,’ Professor Nuffield said, sitting on the edge of his desk. ‘What is geography, after all? It’s the study of the land, and you can’t begin to understand a land and its people until you know something of their legends. When you look at a mountain, what do you see? A pile of earth and rock, or a sleeping myth? Take Mount Skirrid for example, just a few miles from here. Why does it have that peculiar name?’
‘It comes from the Welsh word Ysgyryd, which means “split”,’ David said, opening his eyes.
Professor Nuffield looked a little put out that someone knew the answer. ‘Well, yes, but why is the mountain split? That’s the important question.’ He looked about, but this time no one answered.
Professor Nuffield stood and added a jagged triangle on the board – Jessie guessed it was supposed to be Mount Skirrid. ‘There’s a story that the devil stamped on it in a rage and broke a piece off the top,’ he said. ‘But I’m more inclined to blame the Wild Hunt. People in bygone ages were more superstitious than we are today. When lightning crashed around the mountains, they believed they were hearing the sound of horses and great hounds howling, and they said the Wild Hunt was riding, led by the Norse god, Odin.’ He smiled. ‘Or, around here, you’d say it was Arawn, King of the Otherworld. His hunting hounds are supposed to be white with red ears.’
Some of the hounds in her dream had been white with red ears, Jessie remembered, and she put down her pencil, paying attention now. She’d probably heard about them somewhere else and had forgotten. It was strange that Professor Nuffield would talk about it now, though, just after she’d dreamed about them.
She glanced at David beside her, but he’d closed his eyes again.
Professor Nuffield rested his hands on his desk, leaning forward. ‘Many of these legends come from the same source, you see. The details change but the basic idea is the same. If Odin was around today, you might see a giant dog prowling in the mountains. If you do, you should stand very still. Don’t even breathe. Running will trigger the hound’s hunting instinct.’ He stood back. ‘So . . .’ he asked casually, ‘has anyone seen any large black or white dogs?’
A couple of people laughed.
David sighed. ‘When do we get to eat?’
Jessie noticed the top of his ear was notched, as if someone had taken a piece out of it. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked.
He put a hand to it. ‘Old injury.’ He combed his hair over it with his fingers. ‘My aunt said we’d learn stuff here, but this is boring.’
From what Jessie had seen of David’s aunt, she felt sorry for him having someone like that for a relative. ‘Where are your parents?’ she whispered. ‘Do they live here too?’
‘No, they died.’
‘Oh.’ Jessie’s cheeks filled up with heat. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It happened when I was a baby. I don’t even remember them.’
But that would be even worse: never knowing your parents. Jessie tried to imagine it and it made her feel like she had something cold crawling inside her.
‘Why did your aunt tell you to keep an eye on me?’ she asked, pushing the cold feeling away.
David touched his ear again. ‘She didn’t. You must have misheard.’
Jessie knew she hadn’t. ‘She didn’t like me looking at her bike.’
‘She probably thought you were going to steal it or something. She gets a bit protective.’ He picked up his pen and put it down again. ‘Do you believe in magic?’ he whispered.
Jessie stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You agree with Professor Nuffield, then – it’s just superstition?’ David looked oddly serious.
Jessie shrugged. ‘I think there are a lot of things we can’t explain. They can’t all be superstition.’
‘If you two have quite finished chatting,’ Professor Nuffield said pointedly, ‘maybe we could continue.’
Jessie mumbled an apology and sank lower in her seat. She wished it was lunchtime already. She wanted to go home and check on Storm. To the house, she corrected herself. Home was in London with Mum. This was . . . a place she had to put up with.
CHAPTER 11
After the excitement with the would-be intruder, there was very little to do in the humans’ house. Storm gathered the chewed remains of the paper things into a heap and lay down by the door to sleep, one ear cocked for any noises.
Finally his patience was rewarded. Footsteps outside, the sound of a key rasping in the lock and Jessie’s scent swept in. Storm jumped up.
Jessie servant! A thief brought these. Some sort of trick, but fear not! I have destroyed his evil devices. Also, your shelf for shoes broke. And some of your shoes failed to withstand my teeth. You must find yourself a better carpenter and shoemaker.
Storm watched as various emotions chased across Jessie’s face. Anger at the thought of the thief, exasperation at herself for leaving the house so perilously unguarded and then laughter – thinking, no doubt, of the conversations she’d have later with the carpenter and shoemaker. He thumped his tail on the carpet. There is no need to thank me. This is a fair bargain, the protection of a stormhound in return for your service.
Jessie started gathering up the bits of paper and shoes.
You can do that later, Storm told her. I require meaty chunks and a run in the garden.
As usual, she took no notice. ‘Storm, you’re a naughty dog. It’s a good job this was only junk mail.’
Junk mail? Was that like chain mail only not as good? And what was this nonsense about being naughty?
Jessie threw everything into a round basket. ‘Why does the hall smell so funny? Have you been rolling on the carpet?’
Of course he had been. But also his shadow had spread over everything, Storm remembered. Had Jessie sensed it?
Jessie rubbed a dark patch on the wall near the door. ‘I’ll clean the rest later. Do you want to go out for a bit?’
Finally! He followed her through the house and waited impatiently while she opened the back door for him. Storm watched carefully, trying to work out how he could pull back the bolt and turn the key.
In the garden, the cat was nowhere to be seen, but her smell was all over the fence and the bottom of the tree.
Storm lifted his leg. This is my tree, cat. Stay away.
The sky was vast and grey above him, the long shape of the nearest mountain falling far short of the clouds. Storm sat and watched
the sky for a while, but, apart from the drifting clouds and a few birds too far away to bother with, nothing moved.
Emptiness rose up inside him again, and he stopped the whine that formed in his chest. He must be patient. The Wild Hunt only rode at night when the skies were livid with storm, and this sky was merely sullen.
If only patience wasn’t so difficult.
Storm carefully removed traces of cat smell from other parts of the garden while Jessie sat and watched. After a minute she got something square and flat and began dabbing at it with her stick again. Storm went to see what she was doing.
‘I’m drawing you,’ Jessie said.
Storm watched and gradually the lines took shape. A pair of ears, one of them flopping over.
I do not look like that.
Nevertheless, Storm was flattered. Jessie was a creator! He licked the paper, leaving a wet smear. The creators had a special place of honour in Odin’s halls. Those who told stories or made pictures or played music. They saw the world a little differently. Storm wondered if the same thing was true of human artists. Maybe that was why Jessie had smelled the traces of magic in the hall.
Jessie pushed him away gently. ‘You’re dribbling on my book.’
Storm sat back and gazed up at her. Have you ever looked up at a stormy sky and seen horses? When the Hunt returns, you can meet Odin. You will like that.
Jessie didn’t answer, and Storm left her to her drawing; she didn’t appear to require help.
A door slammed in the house, followed by the sound of Jessie’s Dad calling. ‘Jessie? I thought I’d come home for lunch too. How was your first morning at school? What’s all this stuff in the bin?’
Storm wagged his tail in greeting and went back to observing the sky.
‘He’s ruined the umbrella too,’ Dad said. ‘Storm, you’re a bad boy.’
Excuse me? If it wasn’t for me, your house would be full of intruders.
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