Stormriders Page 4

  ‘It’s going to sink!’

  Frantically he rolled himself the other way, and as his weight shifted, the boat steadied. He lay on his back, the boat bobbing under him, and stared at the mast, quivering but vertical above his head. He could feel the slap of waves against the leather. Slowly, cautiously, he sat up.

  Thora was leaping and cheering on the bank.

  ‘You did it! You’re floating!’ she squealed.

  Grinning, Dúngal picked up an oar. He lowered it over the side of the boat and began to paddle in a circle.

  ‘A óen,’ he counted.

  He paddled round again.

  ‘A dó.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ called Thora. ‘I thought you were in a hurry!’

  ‘Bringing the blessing of the sun,’ said Dúngal. ‘Three circles for luck. This is the last one . . . A trí!’ He completed the turn, and headed for the bank. ‘Watch where you step. Don’t tip it again.’

  ‘Careful, Hairydog,’ warned Oddo, pulling the eager dog back.

  As they clambered in, the curach rocked violently. Oddo’s face paled and he sat down abruptly, clutching the sides.

  When the cauldron, fur blankets and pots of food were stowed around their feet, Dúngal proudly unfurled the sail. It hung limp, and the boat bobbed in the current.

  ‘Okay, Oddo.’ Thora pointed downriver. ‘Make the wind blow!’

  They all peered up anxiously; even Hairydog raised her muzzle and squinted at the sail. Dúngal felt a breeze ripple through his hair. The woollen cloth of the sail shivered, flapped once, then bellied outwards. The curach bucked and shot away.

  ‘Move to the other side!’ shouted Dúngal, grabbing the steering oar.

  ‘We’re sailing!’ yelled Thora, but Oddo held up a drenched sleeve.

  ‘We’re leaking!’ he bellowed. He jabbed with his finger. Water was trickling through the holes where the leather was stitched to the frame. ‘I said this would happen.’

  Thora snatched up the wooden dipper and prepared to bail.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ said Dúngal. ‘When the leather gets wet, the holes’ll close up.’ But as they neared the river mouth and the open sea, he saw the high, thrashing surf. His hand clenched on the steering oar. Would his little boat stand up against those angry waves? As the first breaker pounded towards them, he seized Thora’s arm. ‘Hold tight!’

  The mountain of water reared over their heads, white foam dripping from its crest. But the curach rose too, dancing and bobbing on the swell. The wave slid beneath her hull, then faded away, just a harmless ripple. The curach floated like a gull, rising and plunging with the sea.

  Dúngal felt as if his whole body was melting with relief, and there were tears running down his cheeks.

  Thora laughed in delight. ‘Oddo, didn’t I tell you Dúngal could build a real boat?’

  With spray in their eyes, and salt on their lips, Thora and Dúngal hooted at the waves. Hairydog, teetering on her hind legs, barked at the seabirds wheeling overhead and the long-necked gannets, diving for fish. Graceful little terns jinked and squawked between the wave crests, chased by a greedy skua trying to snatch the catch from their bright red beaks.

  On the yardarm, a tie worked free and whipped loudly in the wind.

  ‘I’d better fix it,’ said Dúngal.

  ‘Shall I lower the yard?’

  ‘No! Don’t slow the boat. I can reach.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Oddo. ‘You’re not tall enough. I’ll do it.’

  ‘I can fix it,’ said Dúngal. ‘You wouldn’t know what to do.’

  He stacked the fur blankets, then rested the big iron cauldron upside-down on top of them for a step. When he climbed up, it wobbled. He had to grab the mast to steady himself before he could lift his arms to tighten the strap.

  ‘Careful!’ warned Thora.

  He grinned and looked down.

  ‘Déccaid! Watch!’ Choosing the right moment, he leaned away from the mast, and balanced. ‘How’s that?’ he cried, stretching out his arms and rocking.

  The sail slackened and gave a noisy flap. Dúngal glanced round in surprise.

  ‘Where’s the wind?’ he demanded.

  ‘You didn’t tell me which way to go,’ said Oddo. ‘I can’t read your mind.’

  Dúngal glared at him.

  ‘First, to the Isles of Faer,’ he said.

  ‘West, then,’ said Thora.

  There was a whoosh and the boat heeled over. Caught unawares, Dúngal swayed over the waves, his arms whirling. He heard Thora’s yelp of alarm, then he toppled backwards into the pit of the curach. As he fell, he saw the grin on Oddo’s face.

  ‘I told you to let me do it.’

  Dúngal sat up, scowling, and rubbed his elbow. Now the curach was flying over the waves. He leaned against the side and squinted through the spray.

  ‘Where to after the Isles?’ said Thora.

  ‘South. I think.’

  ‘You think!’ Oddo’s squawk was like an angry seabird. ‘What do you mean you think?! You’ve got us hurtling around in this eggshell in the middle of the sea, and you don’t even know where we’re going?!’

  ‘You didn’t have to come. I could have found it by myself.’

  At that moment, water sloshed over the side of the boat. Oddo seized the dipper and began to bail furiously.

  ‘I said you were a lemming. Only a lemming would be stupid enough to drop into the sea and drown itself on purpose.’

  ‘Upp! Stupid yourself,’ Dúngal retorted. ‘What about your spells? If you’re so clever, why don’t you use your magic to find the way?’

  Dúngal thought Oddo was going to hurl the dipperful of water in his face.

  ‘Dúngal, don’t be silly,’ said Thora.

  ‘Me silly?’

  ‘Magic can’t do everything. Oddo can’t . . .’

  ‘Oh, can’t I?’ demanded Oddo. ‘I can do a better job than that fluffhead.’ He flung the dipper into the bottom of the boat. ‘I’ll do a shape-change and go look for his stupid Ériu.’

  ‘But . . .’ Thora was looking flustered. ‘Did you bring a wand? What about the magic circle?’

  ‘I can manage without one.’

  ‘But Oddo, it won’t be safe . . .’

  ‘Pig’s poop. You fuss too much. I did it once before and it was fine.’ He ripped open his pouch and pulled out the fire-lighting tools. ‘I can do it with a real fire . . . I just need something to burn.’ He pounced on a length of nettle rope and began to saw it with his dagger. ‘This’ll do.’

  ‘That’s our spare rope,’ protested Dúngal. ‘What if the other ones break?’ He eyed the lines flexing and twanging with the billowing sail.

  ‘They won’t break.’ Oddo was gritting his teeth as he hacked at the rope. ‘Thora made them. They’re tough.’ He grabbed the cauldron. ‘I’ll light the fire in here.’

  ‘No!’ Thora took hold of the other side and tugged.

  ‘What’s happening?’ demanded Dúngal. ‘What’s a . . . shape-change?’

  ‘Oddo rides in an animal shape while his real body stays behind. But . . . he’s supposed to be protected by a magic circle. I wish you hadn’t called him stupid. Oddo, you mustn’t!’

  She tried to drag the cauldron away, but Oddo hung over its edge, striking the steel against the flint. Yellow sparks flew through the air, and a tiny flame flickered among the dry strands of rope. Oddo dropped his fire tools, snatched the cauldron back, and blew on the fire.

  ‘Now, make sure you keep this going,’ he puffed, ‘or I won’t be able to get back from my shape-change!’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘The wind’ll keep west for a couple of days. Just head for the Isles of Faer. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘But . . .’ Thora was getting more and more agitated.

  ‘Sshh!’ He hunched into a ball, hugging his knees. ‘I’m going to ride as a seabird,’ he whispered. ‘One of those red-beaked terns.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Dúngal watch
ed with interest as a glazed look came into Oddo’s eyes.

  10

  Shape-change

  As Oddo glared into the depths of the cauldron, the flickering strands glowed brighter. Flames filled the cauldron and shot upwards in a sheet of golden light, and beyond, perched on the side of the curach, was the shape of a bird.

  Oddo’s body seemed to flow towards the flames. His heartbeat quickened, faster, faster. The blood pounded in his head. The wind was roaring, trying to knock him off the boat. He hunched down, and clutched the wood tighter with his feet.

  Hairydog barked and launched herself towards him. Instinctively, Oddo raised his arms and pushed downwards. With a shock, he felt his body lifting. The solid wood under his feet fell away and he surged forward.

  The wind was lifting him, carrying him. He was flying! In a moment he was far from the boat, far out over the sea.

  He flicked his wings and bounded, like an arrow springing off a bow. He sped across the water, the wind rushing through his feathers.

  ‘I can fly!’ he thought, exultantly.

  He rolled his wings through the air, like oars sweeping through water. Higher, he soared, higher and faster. He watched the waves streaming past. From up in the sky, they looked like harmless ripples.

  ‘How do I turn?’ he wondered. ‘Maybe that’s like rowing, too.’ He beat one wing faster than the other, and managed to veer round in a curve.

  The curach came into sight, the figures inside it all scanning the sky. But only Hairydog could see his magical bird shape. As Oddo drew closer, she yipped a welcome, while Dúngal and Thora looked blankly upwards, even when he swooped right over their heads.

  ‘Kik kik kik!’ he called. But of course they couldn’t hear him.

  He stretched his wings and began to drift, buoyed on air. He could feel the currents lifting him, carrying him, like a boat on a gentle sea. He skimmed the waves, then hovered for a moment, watching the silver backs of the darting fish. Suddenly his wings snapped against his sides and he was plunging like a stone. He hit the water with a splash, his beak stabbed, then he was in the air again, water droplets showering him in rainbow-coloured sparkles and a live fish wriggling down his throat.

  In the same instant he heard the whirr of something diving through the air. He glanced up and saw a huge skua swooping towards him. Oddo tried to twist out of the way, but his pursuer twisted with him. The vicious talons slashed at his wings, then gripped hold of his tail feathers and dragged him backwards. He squawked in fright, and the skua grabbed its chance to rip the fish from Oddo’s gaping beak and sweep away with it.

  Frightened and dishevelled, Oddo wobbled back to the curach. His feet fumbled for a perch on the yardarm, and his wings flopped against his sides. He huddled there, swaying with the rhythm of the boat, his feathers torn and ruffled. As soon as his body stopped quivering, his head twisted towards his back and burrowed under his tail to pick up some preening oil. With the pointy tip of his beak he nibbled his feathers, rubbing them with the oil to make them smooth. He straightened his two long tail feathers, then started on his wings, stroking and rearranging. Only when all his plumes were neat and mended did he peer down at the boat.

  The fire was still burning inside the cauldron, and Hairydog was curled around it. Oddo watched Thora cut a piece of cheese and hand it to Dúngal. She leaned towards him, the wind lifting up her long, honey-coloured hair so that it wrapped around his head. They looked cosy and contented, not thinking about him at all. They even had their backs turned on his boy shape at the foot of the mast.

  ‘I’ve left Thora alone with that oaf,’ thought Oddo crossly.

  For an instant, he was tempted to abandon his shape-change. The flames in the cauldron reached out invitingly towards him. Then he saw Thora shade her eyes and peer out to sea.

  ‘Can you see any land yet?’ she asked.

  She was speaking to Dúngal, but Oddo lifted his red webbed feet and twisted round on his perch so he, too, could look. Even with his bird’s-eye view, all that was visible in every direction was endless sea.

  ‘If I get back in that boat,’ he thought, ‘we could sail for ever and ever, and never find Ireland. I’d never get rid of that conceited, puffed-up—’

  At that moment, Thora turned to check inside the cauldron. So, she hadn’t forgotten him. She picked up a strand of nettle rope to feed the flames, but as she leaned forward, Dúngal tugged her skirt and held up the hunk of cheese.

  ‘Leave her alone, you poophead,’ thought Oddo crossly. He lifted his tail and sent a blob of white shooting downwards. It plopped onto the red hair, and trickled across Dúngal’s cheek. Oddo squawked with glee. ‘Now you’re really a poophead!’

  A pity Thora couldn’t see it. But his droppings were no more visible to her than his magical bird shape.

  He rested a moment longer, then, with a last longing glance into the boat, he lifted his wings and flew away.

  11

  The cauldron

  ‘Why aren’t we going faster?’ said Dúngal. ‘Isn’t your friend supposed to control the wind?’

  ‘He can’t when he’s in a shape-change,’ said Thora.

  ‘Then I wish he’d hurry.’

  Thora glanced hopefully at Oddo, but his boy shape still gazed unseeing ahead of him.

  Dúngal yawned loudly. Twilight was closing around them.

  ‘One of us’ll have to stay awake,’ warned Thora, ‘and look after the fire.’ Dúngal leaned back, and closed his eyes. ‘I guess it’ll be me,’ said Thora.

  As the world beyond the boat disappeared into darkness, the little fire seemed to glow brighter. The boat bobbed and dipped, the dancing flames picking out a flutter of sail, a glimpse of Dúngal’s cheek resting on his hand, and the glitter of water on Hairydog’s fur.

  Thora caught a glimpse of a sleeping gannet resting on the waves, then it was swallowed up in the night as they sailed past.

  Gradually the sky lightened, and Dúngal opened his eyes.

  ‘Oddo back yet?’

  Thora shook her head.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ He scrambled to his feet, rocking the boat as he tugged at a dried fish dangling from the stay. ‘Catch!’ he shouted.

  Thora tried, but she was numb and stiff. The fish slipped through her fingers and Hairydog snapped it up.

  ‘Too slow.’

  The hours dragged, and Dúngal fiddled impatiently, adjusting the sail, tightening knots, and checking the horizon every five minutes for a sign of land.

  The wind swelled and it began to rain. Thora leaned protectively over the cauldron.

  ‘Hurry up, Oddo,’ she called. But there was no sign from the still figure at the foot of the mast.

  ‘How fast can a bird fly?’ asked Dúngal.

  Thora shrugged. ‘It could take ages.’

  The second night, neither of them slept. Thora knew that Dúngal too was peering into the gloom, vainly trying to see what lay ahead. His ears, like hers, would be straining to hear any sound that might warn them they were nearing a shore.

  There was the distant shriek of a seabird. For one hopeful moment Thora thought it might be Oddo, then she remembered that she wouldn’t hear him.

  Dawn was breaking. Thora glanced at Dúngal. His hair and the fur blanket around his shoulders were sparkling with tiny beads of moisture. She looked over the side of the boat. A mist clung around them, but it was slowly lifting. She saw seaweed swirling in the water beside them, the dark shapes of rocks, and then . . .

  ‘Land!’

  As they drew closer, the blurry outline took on the shape of scattered islands. They could see a jagged coastline and the white crests of surf pounding against the cliffs.

  ‘Uch, look at those waves,’ said Dúngal nervously. His voice was almost drowned by the buffeting wind and the cries of seabirds.

  Thora hugged Hairydog tight, and eyed the cliffs. ‘Where can we make a landing?’

  Dúngal pointed to a channel running between two islands. ‘We’ll head over there,’
he yelled.

  As he steered towards the gap, the little curach was snatched up by the tidal stream and hurled between the islands. The wind, funnelled through the cliffs, rose to a screech. The water bubbled and heaved as if it was boiling in a cauldron.

  Clinging to the pitching boat, Thora searched for somewhere to land.

  ‘There!’ She pointed eagerly at a pebbled beach.

  Dúngal leaned on the steering oar. Nothing happened.

  ‘It won’t steer!’ he shouted. He pulled at the leather bindings, and they came away, broken and useless in his hand. ‘Get the sail down!’

  They tore at the lines, while spray lashed their faces and the wind howled and tugged. But even without the pull of the sail, the current spun them helpless past the little bays and tiny sheltered beaches. Jagged rocks reared out of the water, and Thora felt the little boat thump and grind against them.

  ‘We’ve got to stop,’ she wailed.

  She could see sheep grazing in meadows, houses with smoke drifting upwards, and people shouting and waving. And then they reached the last beach, the last few rocks, the last glimpse of land, and they were out of the channel and back in the open sea.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Thora gazed back at the Isles of Faer dropping behind them. ‘We went right past!’

  Dúngal snatched up the oars. ‘I’ll row us back!’

  ‘Wait, I’ll help. Don’t try . . .’

  Before she could reach him, a wave tore the oars from his hands. Thora thumped the side of the boat, tears of anger and frustration burning her eyes.

  ‘I said to wait.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get them back. I can swim.’

  Dúngal hurled himself into the sea, and immediately vanished below a wave. By the time he rose again, coughing and spluttering, the oars were tiny sticks in the distance. Thora flung a rope towards him.

  ‘Dúngal, they’re too far! You can’t reach them.’

  For an agonising moment, Dúngal hung on the end of the rope, gazing after the bobbing oars, then he turned and hauled himself aboard. The curach tilted alarmingly and the sea poured in. Thora just had time to catch Hairydog by the tail before the dog was swept over the side.