Stormchaser (33 page)

‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I must see whether there are any tools on board. If I can’t find a hammer and some nails then I won’t be able to repair anything.’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, what's the point of doing that before I find the other half of the flight-rock.’ He turned. ‘Then again, if there are no supplies on board, we’ll starve to death anyway.’ And with that, he returned the way he’d come.

Yet wherever Twig looked, he drew a blank. The ’tween-deck store-room, stock-room and stowing-room were all empty. The cabins and steerage had been stripped bare. And he already knew there was nothing in the hold where he and the Stone Pilot had spent the night.

‘We’re done for,’ he sighed. ‘I’d better break the news to Maugin.’ And he headed down the stairs that would take him back down to the hold.

On reaching the bottom, Twig frowned with confusion. Where was the Stone Pilot? Where was the chest of stormphrax and the gruesome display of toes? As his eyes got used to the darkness, he realized he was in a different part of the hold altogether – the forehold rather than the mainhold. He looked round, first gasping, then grinning, then whooping with delight.

‘Twig?’ came a voice from the other side of the wooden wall. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes!’ Twig shouted back. ‘And I’ve found it. I’ve found Screed's store and sleeping quarters. And … and … there's everything here we need,’ he said. ‘Plates and goblets, knives and spoons. Oh, and here are his fishing-rods,
and hooks and lines. Candles and lantern oil. And a large box of ship's biscuit. And a barrel of woodgrog. And … Oh, Maugin! He's been sleeping on the sails.’

‘And ropes?’ called Maugin. ‘We’ll need ropes to raise them.’

Twig poked around under the mattress of folded sails. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Coiled up as a base underneath, all the ropes we could possibly want. And … here! A huge chest, full of tools. We’ll be able to get started right away.’ He paused. ‘How's your leg?’

‘Not so bad,’ Maugin called back, but Twig could hear pain in her soft voice.

Twig set to work eagerly. Hour after hour, he toiled, carrying out the instructions of the Stone Pilot, who – although she would have denied it – was suffering constant pain from the angry gash on her leg. But the
Windcutter
really was a wreck. Every spar seemed rotten, every plank ready to crumble. Although he did the best he could, patching here, trimming there, the task seemed hopeless. When the sun sank down below the horizon, he looked round, dismayed by how little he had actually achieved.

‘I’m never going to get this finished,’ he complained.

‘Don’t worry,’ Maugin reassured him in her soft, shy voice. ‘Find the other half of the flight-rock and we’ll make her fly.’

Twig shook his head. ‘But the flight-rock is buoyant,’ he said. ‘Won’t it simply have floated away?’

‘I don’t think so,’ the Stone Pilot replied. ‘As you know, cold rock rises, hot rock sinks. Assuming it landed
somewhere in the warm Mire mud, it should still be there.’

Although the Stone Pilot had been badly injured when descending from the
Stormchaser
, her leg had, thankfully, not been broken. With regular cleansings in the phraxdust-purified water, the swelling went down, the redness faded and the angry wound slowly began to
heal. They had been there ten days when she first climbed shakily to her feet.

‘That's amazing, Maugin!’ said Twig, and took her by the arm. ‘See if you can put some weight on it.’ The Stone Pilot stepped tentatively forwards onto her right leg. It wobbled. She winced – but persevered. ‘Excellent!’ Twig enthused. ‘It’ll soon be as good as new.’

‘It’ll never be that,’ said Maugin, smiling bravely. ‘But I daresay it’ll serve me well for a few more years. Now how's supper coming along?’ She looked up and sniffed the air.

‘Supper!’ Twig exclaimed. ‘I forgot all about it,’ and he dashed outside to seize the metal griddle from the fire. ‘Just how I like them!’ he called back.

‘You mean, burnt,’ said Maugin, smiling as she peered through the hole in the hull.

Twig looked up and grinned. The Stone Pilot's shyness was slowly disappearing. ‘So you won’t be wanting any?’ he said.

‘I didn’t say that,’ came the reply. ‘What have we got today, anyway? No, don’t tell me. Oozefish!’

‘Hammelhorn steaks, actually,’ said Twig. ‘With fresh crusty bread and a nice side salad.’ Maugin's mouth dropped open. ‘Only kidding,’ said Twig as he handed her a platter with her daily ration of three oozefish, a slab of hard tack and a handful of dried woodsap segments arranged upon it. ‘The perfect diet,’ he said.

‘If you say so,’ said Maugin with a smile. She eased herself down onto a rock and began nibbling at a corner of the rock-hard biscuit.

Far away in the distance, the massive orange sun sank down below the horizon and the sky glowed pink and green. Twig and Maugin watched the lights of Sanctaphrax appearing, one by one. Behind their heads, the stars were already sparkling and – as they sat eating in silence – the night spread across the sky like an opening canopy.

‘I love the evenings,’ said Twig as he rose to light the lantern. ‘It's so peaceful out here, with nothing and no-one for miles around and only open sky above.’

Maugin shuddered. ‘It gives me the creeps,’ she said.

Twig did not reply. He knew that, despite her years as a sky pirate, being a termagant trog Maugin still yearned for her life underground. It was – like Twig's own desire to sail the skies – in the blood.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some good news.’

‘What?’

‘I found the other half of the flight-rock.’

‘You did?’ said Maugin excitedly. ‘Where?’

Twig swallowed hard. He had found it in the purified pool where the Professor of Light was buried. The previous evening, he had gone there in despair to talk to the old professor. And there it was, bobbing in the clear warm water, just beneath the surface.

‘Oh, not far from here,’ said Twig. ‘Do you think you can join it together?’

‘I’ve mended worse,’ said Maugin.

Twig looked across at her and smiled. ‘We’ve been lucky so far, haven’t we?’

‘Luckier than I ever dared to hope,’ Maugin admitted.

At that moment, far up in the twinkling depths of the night, a shooting star blazed across the sky with a soft hiss. Twig lay back and watched it. ‘It's so beautiful,’ he sighed.

‘Shhh!’ said Maugin. ‘And make a wish.’

Twig turned and looked at her. ‘I already have.’

• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •
T
HE
F
LIGHT TO
U
NDERTOWN

F
or the next two days, Twig and Maugin worked harder than ever. Having completed the nauseating task of removing Screed's collection of rotting toes, Twig cleared the mud away from the bottom of the ship. Next, he bound the cracked mast, completed the repairs to the hull-rigging and, with wood taken from the redundant cabins, began sealing the largest holes in the hull. Maugin bound the two halves of the flight-rock together in an intricate latticework of ropes, bound in wet mire mud and baked hard into place in the sun. Then the two of them began the arduous business of dragging the ropes and sails from the forehold to the decks.

Although made of woodspider-silk the sails were cumbersome to manoeuvre and half rotted with age. Every gust of wind set them fluttering and flapping, and small tears appeared that had to be patched.

‘Hold on tight!’ Twig ordered below, as the studsail he was holding billowed out. He was halfway up the mast at the time, and struggling to attach it to a sliding-cleat. ‘Do you really think these will get us to Undertown?’

‘Have faith,’ Maugin called up, ‘and a light touch on the sail levers. The flight-rock will do the rest.’

Twig smiled. There was something in Maugin's calm manner that reassured him. He was beginning to depend on this quiet, serious girl more and more. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Only the staysail and the jib to rig up, and we’re done.’

As the setting sun signalled the end of yet another day, Twig checked the knots for a final time, balanced his way back along the creaking bowsprit and jumped down onto the deck.

‘There,’ he announced. ‘Finished.’ He surveyed his handiwork nervously. ‘Shall we go for a trial run?’

‘It's getting dark,’ said the Stone Pilot. ‘We should leave it until morning.’

‘You know best,’ said Twig, somewhat relieved. ‘Let's go and have a tot or two of woodgrog to celebrate. We’ve earned it.’

The following day, Twig was woken before the sun had risen. ‘Get up,’ Maugin was saying as she shook him by the shoulders.

Twig opened his eyes and looked round groggily. His head was thumping. Too much woodgrog, he realized miserably.

‘We must leave now, before the wind changes,’ said Maugin. ‘I’m going down below deck to see to the flight-rock.
You take the helm. I’ll call up to you when I’m ready,’ she said.

Twig washed, dressed, drank enough of the phraxdust-purified water to quench his thirst and clear his head, and made his way to the helm. There by the wheel – freshly aligned and greased – Twig stared at the two long rows of bone-handled levers. ‘Stern-weight, prow-weight, starboard hull-weights, small, medium and large,’ he muttered, ticking them off in his head. ‘Then, mizzensail, foresail, topsail,’ he said, turning his attention to the second row of levers. ‘Skysail … No, studsail. Or is it the staysail…? Blast!’

‘Ready to launch!’ came Maugin's calm voice, echoing up the staircase from the bowels of the ship. ‘Raise the mizzensail.’

‘Aye-aye,’ Twig called back, his own voice sounding shrill and more nervous than he’d have liked.

With his heart in his mouth, he leaned forwards, seized the mizzensail lever and pulled. The sail billowed and filled with air. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a judder and a creak, the
Windcutter
lifted slightly, and almost imperceptibly began to right itself. The rotten timbers groaned horribly.

‘Down the port hull-weights,’ Twig muttered. ‘Up the large starboard hull-weight a tad and … Whoa!’ he cried as the ship listed sharply to port. The sound of tearing sailcloth filled his ears.

‘Careful,’ called the Stone Pilot steadily.

Twig tried to remain cool. He raised the port hull-weights a fraction, and compensated by lowering the stern-weight. The sky ship stabilized and, with a long and rasping squelch, it rose arthritically up from the sucking mud.

‘
YES
!’ Twig cried out. The wish he had made as the shooting star flew across the sky had come true. The
Windcutter
was skyborne. They were on their way back to Undertown.