Stormriders Page 5

  ‘You idiot.’ Thora glared balefully at Dúngal sitting there with water streaming off his hair and clothes. ‘You could have drowned. And you nearly tipped over the boat!’

  At that moment, Hairydog raised her head to the sky, the ruff at her neck lifting in the wind, and gave an urgent howl.

  Oddo scanned the sea, eager for a sign of the curach. He’d been flying two days and nights without rest, but he’d found Ireland, and now he could stop being a bird. The muscles in his wings were aching. And he was hungry, too. Those bullying skuas never let him eat anything. Every time he caught a fish, they snatched it away.

  He looked enviously at a flock of gannets diving for their food.

  ‘I wish I’d chosen a big bird like that for my shape-change.’

  The thought had barely crossed his mind when a fountain of energy surged through him. He rolled his eyes and saw he now had long snowy wings tipped with black.

  ‘I’ve turned into a gannet!’ He steered towards a skua and felt a thrill of triumph as it darted out of his way. ‘Now I’ll be able to eat.’

  He glanced at the horizon, and saw a cluster of knobbly shapes against the smooth line of the sea. The Isles of Faer! Oddo sped towards them, dancing on the updrafts from the billowing waves. In a moment, he was circling, straining for the sound of Hairydog’s bark or the ring of Thora’s laughter. He spotted the little curach, bobbing on the waves beyond the islands. Shrieking with relief, he dived towards it.

  There was Thora, and the cauldron . . . In a moment he would see the flames. Now he could change back to a boy! In a flurry of feathers, he dropped onto the masthead and peered excitedly downwards. He stared, and blinked, unable to believe his eyes.

  He was vaguely aware of Hairydog scrambling to her feet, whining up at him, the ruff at her neck lifted by the wind. He saw Thora tilt her head, following the dog’s gaze. Her hair too was blowing wildly, and she reached up her hands to clutch at the strands streaming across her eyes.

  ‘Oddo, are you up there?’ she called. Her voice sounded hoarse. ‘Please, speak to me.’

  Oddo stared at the tears running down her cheeks. He opened his beak. A feeble squawk trickled out, but of course, Thora couldn’t hear.

  She would never be able to hear him again.

  The cauldron was toppled on its side, seawater sloshing in and out with every roll of the boat.

  The fire was gone.

  12

  Storm

  ‘Can’t you light a new fire?’ Dúngal propped up the cauldron and looked at it hopefully.

  Thora stared at him, then threw herself at the sodden mess in the pit of the boat.

  ‘Help me find the fire-lighting tools.’ But there was no sign of them. She sank back, sagging in despair.

  ‘Uch, they must have gone overboard,’ said Dúngal in a small voice.

  ‘In this tarn of a boat, there’s nothing to use for tinder anyway.’ Thora slapped a dripping fur blanket, then spluttered in disgust as water sprayed in her face. ‘Everything’s drenched.’

  ‘I think the dippers have gone too,’ said Dúngal glumly. ‘But don’t worry. I can bail with my hands. I have big hands.’

  He began to scoop, but most of the water trickled from his fingers before he could pour it over the side of the boat. Resignedly, Thora began to help. By the end of the day, both of them had strips of skin peeling off white, swollen palms, but the motion of the boat was a bit less sluggish.

  ‘See?’ said Dúngal. ‘We’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. You want . . . uisce? Water?’

  He picked up the goatskin bag and held it out. Thora took a sip.

  ‘Yuck! Seawater’s got in here too.’ Suddenly, her tongue felt as dry as a salt herring. ‘How are we going to manage without water? It might be days before we land anywhere and get more.’

  She looked at Dúngal. He was hunched and crestfallen.

  ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Thora let out a sigh and rested her head against his shoulder. They were both silent, staring at the endless waves. Thora longed for nightfall. Longed for the excuse to lie down, close her eyes and forget. But in this strange, lost world the sun sank so slowly in the sky, it seemed that night would never come.

  When Thora woke, Dúngal was poking at the mess in the bottom of the boat.

  ‘Uch, there’s nothing to eat,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t be silly, there must be!’

  But Dúngal was right. The dried meat, carrots and cheese had been washed overboard, and all that was left of the bread was a few soggy crumbs tangled in the fur of the blankets.

  ‘I’m starving!’ moaned Thora.

  At that moment, there was a whistling, flapping noise over her head. She looked up, startled, and just had time to duck out of the way before a fish hurtled out of the sky and landed splat in the curach.

  ‘Oddo!’ whispered Thora.

  Dúngal looked at the fat mackerel, its blue-green scales glistening in the sunlight as it flopped around the boat.

  ‘I thought you said he changed into a bird.’

  ‘No, no! I mean Oddo caught that fish for us. Oddo’s a bird. And he’s brought us some food. He must be flying near us, listening and watching. And . . .’ She gulped, and gazed upwards. ‘He’s . . . looking after us. Oh Oddo, I’m sorry about your fire.’

  ‘Hey, thank you for the fish,’ called Dúngal. ‘I’ll cut it up, so we can eat it.’

  He reached towards Oddo’s limp body, still sitting by the mast, and eased the dagger from his belt. Thora laid a portion of fish on the palm of her hand, held it in the air, and concentrated fiercely. ‘Oddo, you share it with us!’

  A shiver of wind brushed her cheek, and the fish was gone. Thora looked at her empty palm. ‘Oh Oddo, I wish I could see you!’

  She turned round and stared miserably at the empty shell of a boy who used to be Oddo. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again.

  He didn’t move or blink.

  A gust of wind whipped up the waves and the boat lurched uncomfortably. Thora ducked as a spray of salty water blew in her face.

  ‘Get the sail up!’ cried Dúngal, leaping to his feet. ‘We’re going to find land.’

  ‘But . . . where?’ yelled Thora, tugging at the tangle of lines and cloth. ‘We don’t know which way to go.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Anywhere! Where the wind takes us! I’m going to find water. And food.’

  The sodden, heavy sail flapped in their faces, and the ropes bit into their hands. But at last the sail rose and the little boat took off across the water.

  ‘Bet I’m the first to spot land,’ shouted Dúngal.

  Thora tucked her painful, frozen fingers under her armpits and turned her gaze towards the sea. On and on they sailed, both of them scouring the grey ripples for any sign of land.

  ‘Ced sin?’ yelled Dúngal. ‘What is that?’ But it was only the hump of a whale.

  Thora slumped back, and closed her eyes. All she could think about was her parched throat. Her lips were swollen and cracked. When she tried to lick them, there was no moisture on her tongue.

  She lost track of time. Sometimes when she opened her eyes the world was dark, and sometimes it was bright with sunshine. Dúngal had stopped chattering and fidgeting, and the only sounds were the creaking of the boat, the thump of waves, and the moaning of the wind.

  ‘Thora, look!’

  Thora’s eyes sprang open. The sky was the livid purple of a bruise. Clouds thick and grey as dirty fleece were streaming across it. And stacked along the rim of the sea were misty shapes that looked like mountains.

  ‘Is that land?’

  Thora staggered to her feet, grasping the mast to steady herself. As she strained her eyes to see, the wind broke into a strange, high-pitched whine. The waves began to rush helter-skelter, piling on top of each other. The whine changed to a howling gale, and the waves reared higher and higher. Thora caught a glimpse of water rippling like an avalanche towards them. She felt th
e mast bending and straining, dragged by the force of a heavy, wet sail.

  ‘Dúngal! Help me get the sail down. The mast’s going to break!’

  One of the ropes snapped and Thora gave a cry as it whipped across her face. Nursing her cheek, eyes smarting with tears, she watched Dúngal hack at the other lines holding the sail.

  The purple cloak of the sky was ripped by a flash of lightning. A second later, thunder crashed around them. Thora could hardly think, hardly breathe. The wind battered against her, burning her face with cold. Crawling and sobbing, she gathered ropes in her hands.

  ‘Tie . . . to the mast,’ she gasped.

  She began to wind a rope round Oddo’s limp body, and the shivering bundle that was Hairydog. Icy water poured over her head, and she felt Dúngal grab the other rope, drag her close, and bind them both to the mast.

  The boat hurtled on. Through raw, throbbing eyes Thora saw a cliff loom in front of them. The next instant they were sucked into a turmoil of thundering surf, and the curach crashed and juddered against the black, gleaming rocks. The mast tore from its footing. The bindings ripped, and Thora, clutching Oddo, was flung into the air.

  She had a glimpse of purple sky, of leaping green surf, then she was plunged into icy, churning water. She flailed her legs, trying to push upwards, but Oddo’s helpless body was dragging her down. The sea poured into her nose and throat, choking her, drowning her. Then, for an instant, her load seemed to lighten. She felt herself rising. There was a moment of relief, one gulp of air, and then a breaker, surging up, hurled her towards the black, jagged cliffs.

  13

  Shipwreck

  Dúngal opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a beach. A wave poured over his head, then melted away, and the white bubbles of spume sank into the wet black sand around him.

  His belly gave a heave and seawater poured out of his throat.

  Another breaker rolled towards him. Retching and gulping, he struggled to his hands and knees and began to crawl up the beach. The broken end of the rope around his waist trailed behind. To his right reared the huge shadow of a cliff.

  ‘Thora?’ he called.

  His cry was blown away by the wind and rain. He turned to look for the curach, but all he could see was empty sand. He stumbled to his feet and began to run, tripping and scrambling, across the beach. He reached the cliffs and searched frantically among the shadowy hollows and the stony shards. But there was no movement; no answer to his cries. Only the eerie scream of gulls.

  Wrapping his arms around his wet, shivering body, he huddled against the rocks, feeling as lonely and helpless as a hatchling fallen from its nest. Rain pelted his face. He tilted back his head and opened his mouth, but only a few tantalising drops landed on his parched tongue. In desperation, he turned and licked the wet, glistening surface of the cliff.

  It tasted of salt.

  He slumped back and gazed across the cove.

  ‘I’m the only one left,’ he thought.

  There was no sign of any people. No boats, no fishing nets. Nothing. Only a black void of sand and pebbles, and then more jagged rocks, more cliffs. In front of him, the pounding waves rolled empty and relentless towards the shore. He picked up a fistful of shiny pebbles, and hurled them across the beach.

  There was a beating of wings as a cluster of kittiwakes, paddling in the spume, rose, startled, into the air. They coasted on the wind, circling and screeching. But on the rocks below, one pale wing still lifted and dipped, lifted and dipped. Dúngal watched it, puzzled. Then suddenly hope spurted through him. Maybe it wasn’t a bird. Maybe . . .

  He leapt to his feet and began to run. And now he could see, draped across the rocks, a grimy, tattered cloth. His sail! Once again, a corner lifted in the wind, and beneath it he caught a glimpse of small, white toes.

  ‘Thora!’

  He lurched forward, grabbed the edge of the sail, and yanked. Oddo was sprawled there, and beyond him, her fingers still twined around his belt, was Thora. She was lying against the boulders, her wet hair trailing like seaweed, her eyes closed.

  ‘Uch, Thora!’ Dúngal gripped her shoulder and shook. Thora’s head rolled and she let out a groan. Then her eyes flickered open. She stared at him.

  ‘Where’s Oddo?’ she whispered.

  Dúngal pointed beside her. ‘There. You’re holding onto him!’

  She turned to look, then let go of the belt, and rubbed her fingers. Shakily, she sat up.

  At that moment, a wave slid up the beach. It curled around their legs and washed over Oddo’s face. ‘Help!’ Thora lifted Oddo’s head. ‘We’ve got to move him.’

  Oddo’s limp body felt as heavy as a whale’s. Slowly, painfully, they eased him a short way up the beach, and paused, panting for breath. ‘All right, one more heave.’

  Dúngal gritted his teeth, dug in his fingers and yanked. Oddo slid across the stones and ground to a halt. Dúngal and Thora collapsed beside him.

  ‘I’ll never move again,’ groaned Dúngal.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Thora struggle to sit up. He saw her stretch an arm to something green on the cliff above her head.

  ‘Dúngal?’ she croaked. ‘Can you reach? It’s sea fennel. Good to eat.’

  He looked. He imagined the sweet juice running down his throat. Somehow he rose to his knees, and a moment later the two of them were greedily sucking the liquid from the long, fleshy leaves.

  ‘Better,’ said Thora. ‘Only . . .’ She frowned round, and then began to crawl across the sand. Dúngal gazed after her, but he had about as much energy as a strand of seaweed. He sank down and closed his eyes.

  He was woken by the sound of crunching. A strong, sweet perfume drowned out the smells of sea and salt. Dúngal eased one eye open.

  ‘Want some?’ Thora was chewing on a thick, purple stem, while yellow juice dripped down her chin. ‘Angelica. It will make you feel better.’

  Dúngal struggled to sit up and held out his hand. Thora was right. As he chewed, his body tingled back to life. In a few minutes he even felt strong enough to stand. He took a few tentative steps and grinned in delight. His legs felt almost normal. He glanced out to sea. A little head with perky black ears was bobbing on the surf.

  ‘Hey, look!’

  The wave swept up the beach, and a wet, spiky bundle dropped onto the sand. It staggered to its feet, gave a feeble shake and tottered towards them.

  ‘Hairydog!’ Thora threw her arms around the shivering creature and offered her some leaves. ‘We’re all together again!’ she hooted. ‘And we’re all safe.’

  ‘But . . . We’re stuck here,’ stammered Dúngal, ‘with no boat. And Oddo . . . He’s still . . .’ He looked at the blank, staring face.

  ‘Then we’ll get a boat. And a fire.’

  ‘How?’ Dúngal looked around the empty cove. ‘Where?’

  ‘There must be some people in this place,’ said Thora. She pointed across the sand, and for the first time Dúngal noticed a patch of grass beyond the cove. ‘I reckon that’s a farm.’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘Let’s go and look. Hairydog, you stay with Oddo.’

  ‘Wait!’ Dúngal snatched up a length of driftwood and hefted it in his hand. ‘You take one too.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘How do we know the people will be friendly?’

  ‘But . . . Oh, all right.’

  They hurried past the walls of the cliffs, their feet scrunching on the sand and pebbles. Then they stepped out onto springy grass.

  14

  Ice and fire

  ‘Look at this perfect farmland,’ breathed Thora.

  Stretching in all directions were lush, rolling meadows, flowers and trees. And dozens of little streams glinting in the sun.

  ‘Water!’

  As they ran, laughing, across the grass, the cries of songbirds seemed to echo their excitement. Thrushes and redwings flitted between the trees. The rain stopped, and the sun shimmered in a golden, hazy sky.

  They threw themselves at the n
earest brook and scooped up the water, handful after handful, and poured it into their mouths.

  ‘Stop! What was that?’

  Thora hesitated, water trickling between her fingers. ‘What?’

  ‘The stream. It . . . sort of . . . spurted up.’

  Thora frowned. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  They waited. She shrugged. ‘Must have been a fish or something. Anyway,’ she shook the water from her hands, ‘we’ve had enough. Let’s find that fire.’

  She stood up and looked around for a tell-tale wisp of chimney smoke, but all she could see was grass and trees.

  ‘Where are all the people?’ Dúngal demanded. ‘And the houses? And the animals?’

  ‘They must be further away,’ said Thora. ‘Come on.’

  Following the river, they began to march forward.

  A low, snow-covered mountain hove into sight. It looked like a beast with outstretched paws, crouching behind the grassy hillocks. ‘We should climb up there. If we’re higher, we’ll be able to see more.’

  The river led them towards the mountain. As they drew close, the grey rock face took on a greenish tinge and seemed to glow strangely where it caught the light.

  Dúngal turned to Thora and held out his stick.

  ‘Hold this while I climb,’ he said.

  He thrust his toe in a crevice and launched himself upwards. But as his fingers touched the surface, he gave a cry and slithered to the ground.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Thora stretched out her hand to the lumpy cliff face, then drew it back in shock. ‘It’s not rock. It’s ice!’

  Their eyes followed the line of grey right up to the snow on its peak.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Dúngal.

  ‘It’s a glacier,’ said Thora. ‘And that,’ she pointed to the river at their feet, ‘is the ice melting.’

  Dúngal flung out his arms. ‘Is this whole land made of ice?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Thora prodded the riverbank with her stick. ‘Look, there’s soil here.’