The Spin (10 page)

‘Then why does he have this job?'

Ralf shrugged. ‘Al doesn't care, so I don't care. It's much easier not to bother, Stormy.'

‘We should do it properly,' Stormy said. ‘
I'll
do it properly.' He yanked the dragon-wagon out of Ralf's grasp and hurried ahead with it.

‘Hang on, hang on,' Ralf came after him. ‘You can't do it alone.'

‘Course I can!' Stormy said.

But the sight of the silver spitfyre in the daylight, huge and fierce and hungry, brought him to a halt.

‘Here, calm down, Stormy!' Ralf rushed up. ‘You can't do it all. And, look, there's a bit of extra for number one,' he said. He took a small glass bottle from his pocket and uncorked it. ‘Magic dust,' he said, sprinkling the yellow powder on the food. ‘And then this.' He took two ladles of food from the bucket next to it and added it. ‘Number one's Star Squad, don't forget,' he said.

‘What's the powder for?' Stormy asked.

‘Haven't a clue,' Ralf said. ‘Orders, that's all. In you go, if you dare.'

Holding his thork in front of him Stormy crept into the first cave, sidling in alongside the spitfyre's hot body. ‘Hello. Don't burn me,' he whispered. ‘This is lovely stuff – snails, herbs and mashed squib-beetle.'

The spitfyre didn't like him. It shook its head and sparks sprayed from its nostrils, showering round Stormy. He quickly stamped out a small fire that sprang alight in the hay.

‘Gently does it! I'm your friend. I won't hurt you!' But the spitfyre gnashed its teeth and pushed at him, and he had to run or be crushed against the rock. At least he'd done it. Done it and not got hurt.

More confident now, he went into the next cave and fed and watered that spitfyre almost casually. By the time he came out from the fourth cave, Ralf was adding a fine dusting of yellow power to its food, ready for him to take in to number five.

‘Hello, spitfyre number five, how are you today?' Stormy asked it as he went in. ‘Here's your breakfast. It looks nice. Eat it up. Specially made for you by Otto, Brittel and his merry men.'

When they came to the thirteenth cave, a wave of sadness washed over him so he felt quite sick. The spitfyre had looked so ill and so feeble earlier, and he wasn't allowed to help it.

‘Wait!' cried Ralf, as Stormy picked up the bucket of food and prepared to go in. ‘Use the pole!'

‘Oh, I don't need it.' He assumed Ralf didn't know how ill the spitfyre was. Having seen it earlier he was certain that it was too weak to hurt him. And he wanted to show how daring he was.

He took the bucket of food into the dark, smelly cave. He didn't get past the fold of rock before the spitfyre's roaring and spitting sent him scurrying back outside. His heart was booming. He felt foolish.

‘I told you it was dangerous!' Ralf yelled.

‘But –'

‘It's Al's problem,' Ralf said, looking embarrassed. ‘It belongs to him. Makes
me
shove the food in. It's been here years and years. I don't think it's ever been out of that cave, not so as I can remember.'

‘
Never
out of its cave?' Stormy cried.

‘Al had an accident; you've seen how he limps? That's something to do with number thirteen.'

They made their way back up to the top of the terrace. The blue spitfyre in cave five lunged at them crossly as they went past, making Stormy shout out in surprise. Then number one shot flames at them so they had to leap in the air.

Ralf laughed. Stormy tried to laugh, but felt the heat through his overalls.

‘What's up with them?' he said.

‘Nothing. Ignore them,' Ralf said. ‘Some students teach them to do that.'

The Star Squad spitfyres were the most jittery. They were the ones pulling on their chains and bellowing; the ones blowing out flames.

‘Are they always like this?' said Stormy. ‘Are they all right? I wonder –'

They turned at the sound of voices and saw a group of students coming towards them.

‘Damn,' Ralf said, thumping his fist against the dragon-wagon.

Hector led the group. He was wearing a tight-fitting dark suit and long boots which, with a stab of envy, Stormy recognised, was the Academy riding outfit. It showed off Hector's well-toned muscular body to its very best. He was play-fighting with another boy, pushing and shoving and pretending to hit him, and they were both laughing. Stormy put his head down and tried to merge into the scenery as he and Ralf headed back to the servery. He knew what a pathetic figure he made in his too-small jacket and big boots. He knew his hair was tangled and too long. He probably had food stains on his jacket front too.

‘Whoa! Hi there, Ralf!' Hector called and he held up his hand so the band of students he was with bumped into each other as they suddenly stopped. ‘Who's the new friend, Ralf?'

Ralf nudged Stormy in the ribs.

‘Stormy,' Stormy said.

Hector nodded slowly, as if he was thinking about it. ‘That's an interesting name. Are you? Are you Stormy?'

‘No,' Stormy said. ‘I don't get into rages, if that's what you mean. It was because –'

Hector held up his hand. ‘Nah! Too much information. You must have come up to replace Ollie? Ollie was such a sensitive chap,' he said, gazing over the valley. ‘A really
nice
boy. Did you hear what happened to him?'

‘Not now, Hector,' said the boy he'd been play-fighting with. He was small with large brown eyes and very straight black eyebrows and hair.

Hector spun round and glared at him. ‘Ollie had an accident, Bentley, what's wrong with talking about that?' He faced Stormy again. ‘I don't know why people won't talk about it. Still, I'm glad we've got a new boy to help, because although Ollie was a dear chap, he was about as much use as a one-handed grubbin when it came to spitfyre care. He was scared of them. You aren't scared, are you?'

‘No,' Stormy said, standing a little taller, jutting out his chin. ‘Not me.'

‘Good, that's good.' Hector nodded towards the caves. ‘Come with me!'

Stormy glanced at Ralf and then followed Hector to the first cave. Of course this Star Squad spitfyre, the biggest and scariest, was bound to be Hector's. And since they'd fed it, the spitfyre had become electrified – Stormy was glad he didn't have to go into its cave now. It was tugging at its chains and snorting. The silver scales around its muzzle actually seemed to have lit up and were glowing with heat. It fixed its eyes on Hector expectantly, almost lovingly, and began to puff and bellow so narrow orange flames flickered from its nostrils.

‘This is Sparkit,' Hector said.

Sparkit.
Stormy thrilled to his name. It was perfect.
Sparkit
.

‘What a monster, eh?' Hector said with pride. ‘I hope he behaves for you. You'll look after him, won't you?'

‘Oh, yes, I will,' Stormy said.

‘You'll need to take extra care of him. He's very special, worth a great deal of money. Unlock him, would you?'

‘Bridle him first, Hector,' Bentley said with a nervous laugh. ‘You know the rules.'

‘What rules? Sparkit's fine. In you go, new boy.'

‘I don't have a key.'

Ralf tossed him a bundle of keys.

‘Now you do,' Hector said. ‘In you go.' Stormy's knees buckled. ‘Don't be scared.'

Stormy glanced at Ralf, who was looking oddly pale and strained. Perhaps Ralf was a little jealous of the attention Stormy was getting, or perhaps he was scared for him.

Stormy grabbed a thork and, holding it up protectively, he crept in, determined to do well, determined not to let his nerves spoil this moment. The spitfyre rolled his eyes, arched his neck and snapped his jaws, spitting out tiny balls of fire at him. Stormy dodged, feeling a blast of hot air follow him round the cave. He could hear the students chuckling behind him, and that made him hotter and more determined to do things right. He went on, creeping behind the spitfyre towards the darkness and the chinking chain. The great bulk of the creature, hot and pulsating, seemed to fill the cave. He was much hotter and jumpier than he had been when Stormy first fed him.

There was only a thin space between the spitfyre and the wall, and one careless side-step from him, or one
intentional
side-step from the bad-tempered spitfyre, would crush him against the rock. This animal oozed aggression. He did not want Stormy in there. Without turning his head towards him, only rolling his eye so he could keep track of him, the spitfyre was squeezing him against the rock.

Stormy picked up the heavy chain carefully, letting his hands inch along it until he reached the metal cuff. He was so close to the spitfyre he could see the individual silvery hairs of his coat and the pulsating veins that ran below the pale skin of his belly. The smell of cordite and burnt matches filled the air.

He fumbled through the keys, looking for the right one. Sweat was pouring off him and dripping into his eyes. His fingers slipped and fumbled. He found himself squashed against the hard uneven wall, furiously fitting one key after the other into the lock.

‘How you doing?' Hector yelled.

‘Good, good!'

At last he had the right key. Carefully he turned it. Carefully he unlocked the leg iron and lifted it off.

Sensing he was free, the spitfyre puffed out short, excited breaths, and some tension that had been there evaporated, only to be replaced by another sensation – as it got ready to move outside – of thrilled
expectation
.

The grubbin convict must have felt like this, Stormy suddenly thought, when
he'd
got his leg iron off. Poor grubbin. Nothing should ever be chained up.

The spitfyre danced out, hooves noisy and sharp on the stone. On the terrace he appeared as a black featureless winged shape against the brighter, lighter sky. He unfurled his wings like new leaves opening for the first time and shook them energetically. The sun blazed through the membranes, showing the sinewy spokes like an umbrella.

Bentley shouted something about his bridle, but Stormy could only stand and stare in awe. Fantastic, just utterly fantastic!

The massive spitfyre began to circle and paw the ground, anxious to go.

‘You forgot my gear!' Hector yelled. ‘My gear!'

Stormy looked round quickly. There was a large empty stone basin at the back of the cave, where in the olden days the dragon's treasure trove would have been. No
gear
.

‘Hurry up!'

‘Coming!'

He scanned the cave. Hanging on the wall near the entrance were goggles, a helmet and reins. Stormy seized them quickly and took them out. ‘Here you are.'

Sparkit had swelled in size. He was prancing about, shifting and sidestepping, eager to go.

‘Sparkit! Bridle!' Hector said, and the spitfyre reluctantly lowered his head so Hector could fit the reins and bridle on. There was no bit to go in his mouth; Stormy knew that winged horses did not submit to anything being placed in their mouths. Ralf held the reins while Hector fitted his helmet and goggles on, and then he stepped up on the mounting block and swung himself onto the spitfyre's back.

The students shifted out of the way quickly, knocking into each other in their hurry to make space.

‘Sparkit! Fly!' Hector commanded, and leaning forward he whispered instructions into the spitfyre's ear. ‘Fly!'

With a loud swish, Sparkit flung out his wings to full extension and flapped them once slowly, experimentally, then again, harder and faster until dust blew up.

‘Fly!' The spitfyre lurched forward, neck outstretched.

A great wave of air ripped round the onlookers so they fell back against the wall. Stormy was incapable of moving or speaking. Blood pounded inside his head. It was so beautiful!

‘Fly!'

Spitfyre and rider leapt into the void like an enormous bird. One moment Sparkit was hanging in the air, wings spread, next he was dropping like a stone, plummeting into the valley.

‘No!' Stormy yelled, rushing to the edge, totally sick with horror, his face frozen into a ghastly grimace. They had fallen thousands of feet . . . they'd be dead . . . or so hurt . . . why wasn't anyone doing anything?

‘No!'

He ran, was almost at the edge, when with a sudden loud whoosh, the air heaved and the spitfyre soared back up into view. Stormy toppled. The spitfyre flew up and up and away.

Bentley and the others clapped and cheered.

‘He always does that,' Ralf said, picking up his thork. ‘He's one big show-off.'

Stormy stared after the disappearing spitfyre. Slowly he got up. Total horror was slowly replaced with a dull admiration . . . And for the first time in his life, he felt completely and totally overcome with a terrible envy, and it hurt.

He helped several other students with their spitfyres, asking the names of their animals as he did so. It wouldn't take him long to learn them; it wouldn't be hard.

The red spitfyre in eight with the topaz eyes and the long yellow mane was Kopernicus. The emerald-green spitfyre was called Daygo, and of course the blue spitfyre was called Bluey. It belonged to Bentley.

The last time he had been this close to Bluey was when he'd crashed into the garden of Otto's kitchen, and then Araminta had been riding him. He wondered if Bentley knew that she had borrowed his spitfyre. Probably not, and he certainly wasn't going to tell him.

‘My, he's frisky!' Bentley said, trying to rein Bluey in. ‘What's up with him?' But he didn't wait to hear if there was an answer and soon he was swirling up into the sky, blue merged into blue, and he was gone.

The spitfyres are wasted on these students
, Stormy thought, watching as one by one the spitfyres left the terrace. He imagined what it would be like to sit astride one and feel the thrust and pulse of the powerful wings. To glide through the air, miles above the ground and go anywhere he wanted . . . He sighed. Life was so unfair.