The Spin (8 page)

‘Number one,' Ralf said.

They were at the first cave. Al arranged the lanterns so they had light to work by.

Stormy was right next to a real flying horse.

It was a massive creature of silvery grey – the size of a shire horse with feet like dinner plates and legs like small trees. The sheer size of it took his breath away. The pulsating power and heat coming from it made him giddy.

The spitfyre was puffing smoke and shifting restlessly around its cave. Its bat-like wings were folded against its side, but they twitched and stirred, as if they were going to unfurl at any moment. There was a fierceness about it, as if it wanted to escape and fly away, like a dog on the end of a leash. It was both scary and thrilling.

‘Oh, Al! Oh, Ralf!' Stormy cried. ‘Look at it!'

Ralf huffed. ‘Don't know what you're so excited about. Work with flying horses as long as I have, then, well . . . It's just a spitfyre – a horse with a bit of lizard thrown in. Here, I'll do him and show you how. Number one's Star Squad – a bit wild, a bit special.'

Ralf held up the thork and pushed his way into the cave, jabbing the pronged thing at the creature and shouting. The spitfyre's eyes rolled, showing the whites, and it snorted crossly. It reared up on its hind legs and blew out a cloud of pungent smoke, but Ralf dodged the dangerous hooves and quickly did his work. ‘Food!' he called out. ‘See here, water!'

He ran out, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. ‘Done.'

‘You're brave!' Stormy said.

‘Thanks,' Ralf said with a grin.

‘What's the Star Squad?' Stormy asked Al. ‘I've never heard of it.'

‘The elite,' Al said, leaning on the wagon. ‘Strongest. Biggest. Best.'

‘They go on secret missions,' Ralf said. ‘Do special work for the Director. Now, you do the next one. Number two's OK, I promise.' He handed Stormy the nearest bucket of food.

‘But –' Stormy looked at the bucket. ‘It's for number five!'

‘Who cares?' Al said. ‘Otto won't see, or Brittel, will they? We do Star Squad careful since we must, but the rest get what they get.'

Stormy hesitated. Cleaning the kitchen had been a mistake . . . He mustn't make another, he must do as he was told. He didn't want to be sent back to Otto. He took the bucket.

The spitfyre in the second cave was silvery-pink with shining coral-coloured wings. It was watching them closely, not face on, but like a bird, cocking its head on one side and staring with one gleaming dark eye. What an eye! It was as big as an eagle's egg and it swivelled in its socket, showing the yellow-white around it. Its purple hooves pawed the ground as if it was going to leap at any moment. A chain clinked and rattled on one of its hind legs. Stormy had never imagined that. He'd thought they would be free to come and go, flying out into the wide sky whenever they wanted.

Nobody, nothing was free if a spitfyre wasn't.

Stormy took off the lid. The food was red and orange with freshly chopped strong-smelling herbs sprinkled over it which made his nose sting.

‘Go on, then,' Al said. ‘Don't be scared. Thork at the ready. Get in before the daft thing goes crazy with hunger.'

Stormy squared his shoulders, ready to go in. ‘What's its name?' he asked.

‘We don't bother with names,' Ralf said.

‘Too much effort,' Al said.

But a name would help so much, Stormy thought, facing the massive spitfyre. I'd really like to call it something,
anything
. . . He was so terrified that he was trembling from head to foot as he inched forward, holding his wooden thork up in front of him, nudging the air with it tentatively as if trying to ward off a gnat.

The whole of the cave seemed to be filled with the body of the spitfyre. Heat radiated from it like a boiler. Stormy felt a sweat break out all over his skin. The pink spitfyre puffed out a gust of hot breath, smoky, with a whiff of sulphur that made him cough.

He held up the food bucket and the spitfyre sniffed noisily at it.

‘Hello,' Stormy said quietly, ‘I've got your dinner. I hope you like it. Brittel made it – it looks lovely.'

‘It'll be a bit wary of you to start with,' Ralf shouted from the cave entrance. ‘They've a suspicious nature, spitfyres. And that one does bite, so keep it pushed back.'

The spitfyre grumbled, jabbed its head at Stormy and sent out a cloud of ash, but nothing worse. Stormy edged towards the food trough with the bucket.

‘Don't mind me,' he whispered. ‘I'm just nobody.'

He must have been too slow, or the spitfyre was too bad-tempered or too hungry, because suddenly it snorted violently and a stream of fire shot towards him.

‘Mind yourself!' Ralf cried. ‘Oi! Watch out!'

The flames narrowly missed Stormy's feet. With a yelp he dropped the bucket and ran. The spitfyre bellowed deeply, dived on the food and began to eat it greedily.

‘Ha, ha!' Ralf laughed. ‘That was something! Number two doesn't like you!'

‘But . . . but I didn't mean him any harm,' Stormy cried, deeply hurt. He felt as limp as a rag, sapped of all energy and
so
disappointed.

‘The Star Squad can be tricky, like you saw, but number two wasn't
so
bad, was it? Not really? Buck up and try number four,' Al told him. ‘The Squad's a difficult lot, but they're best at flying and best at –'

‘Best at being beasts,' Ralf said.

‘Number one, three, five and seven are Squad,' Al went on. ‘You need to watch them. There's a couple on the East side too. Get special things.'

‘Special what?' he asked.

‘Just things,' Ralf said. ‘Number four's OK. He's gentle, you'll see.'

The green spitfyre in the fourth cave was smaller and didn't spit at him. It had emerald scales around its hooves and a fine blue and turquoise tail.

‘Hello,' Stormy whispered. ‘I wonder what your name is, lovely one? Dinner's here.'

The spitfyre shifted out of the way, squashing itself against the wall, keeping its eyes on the food bucket. He put the food into the trough and filled up the water. As the green spitfyre came over to eat, Stormy laid his hand on its neck and stroked it. There! He'd touched one at last.

He went out beaming. He could do this. He would do this. He was going to be the best spitfyre keeper's third assistant ever.

‘That's better,' Al said. ‘That's good.'

‘Scared?' Ralf called to him.

‘A bit.'

‘You're bound to be; it's your first time,' said Al. ‘OK. We'll work our way along. You just do the yellow one in nine and the old one in ten and we'll do the others.'

‘OK.' Stormy nodded.

He was surprised to find the caves were so smelly; the straw wasn't fresh and the troughs weren't clean. Otto's rubbish bin was positively spic and span compared to these caves.

Both the spitfyres he tended had sores where their shackles rubbed. Were the stables ever really clean? Since Al didn't seem to care about himself, why would he care for the flying horses? Brittel had made their food so carefully for them. It wasn't difficult to match bucket number six with spitfyre number six. That wouldn't be hard. He'd do that, and find out their names. Once he knew their names he'd be able to manage them better. A name was part of a spitfyre's identity; it was their very essence. A sky-rider needed it to understand his animal, to get it to co-operate and work.

He took as long over the yellow spitfyre in the ninth cave and old grey one in ten as Ralf and Al took to do all the others. The grey spitfyre was arthritic and its wings were crumpled and short. It peered at him with bloodshot eyes and when he patted it, its insides rumbled like a volcano and orange smoke gushed out of its nose. Stormy took this as being a good omen.

They came to the last stable; it was cut at a right angle into the cliff, so the spitfyre inside was hidden.

‘Thirteen,' Ralf said. ‘Terrible.'

‘Why?'

‘Oh . . .' Ralf glanced back towards Al and went on in a lowered voice, ‘Even
he
won't go in there. We just chuck in the food. This one's dangerous. It's eaten students, bones and all.'

Stormy swallowed. ‘Don't be daft,' he said nervously. ‘You're just trying to scare me, aren't you?'

But when he saw that Al was standing back by the dragon-wagon, a strained, faraway expression on his lined face, he wasn't sure.

Ralf swapped his thork for a long forked metal pole. ‘Use this,' he said.

Stormy was shaking as he put the bucket of food down at the cave entrance and pushed it inside with the pole. Something moved in the deep shadows, but he saw nothing more than a sparking flash. The smell was awful.

‘Don't you ever go in? How do you know how it is?' Stormy asked. ‘Is it all right?' he asked Al.

Al wiped his mouth as if he had a bad taste in it. ‘That spitfyre is not rideable,' Al said. ‘Not tameable. Not anythingable. Best left alone and forgot.'

Stormy went back to the servery with just the empty buckets and rattling wagons to keep him company. He'd need to wash everything, and tidy, and he still had to throw out that leftover food. The servery was empty, but Stormy thought he heard a quick scuttling noise as he went in. He was sure someone had been there – and some of the leftover food had gone. He pictured an army of mice sneaking in and stealing it, but that couldn't be.

While he scrubbed the buckets clean he thought about the dirty caves, the cobwebs as big as bed sheets, filthy wet straw, bones and eggshell ground into the floor, overgrown hooves on the spitfyres and patches of sore skin. Tangled manes and tails.
Not if I was in charge
, he thought.
Not if I was spitfyre keeper
–
then it would be neat and clean and smart.
He'd loosen the shackles or do away with them entirely. He'd wash the spitfyres' coats and brush their manes and tails and oil their wings to keep them supple . . . He'd be their friend. Even the Star Squad would like him –
specially
the Star Squad. He'd learn how to talk to them . . . He'd write a book about them . . . He'd become famous . . . He'd . . . Why didn't
Al
care?
He
didn't seem bothered about anything, not spitfyres or people or food or anything . . . If only . . .

‘Oi! You don't need to
wash
those!' Ralf yelled, coming in. ‘That's only spitfyre stuff. Stop! You'll drive Al bonkers.'

Stormy took the crumpled list of duties out of his pocket. ‘It says to wash the buckets,' he said. ‘Send them down clean. Keep order. It's my job. Anyway, I like cleaning.'

‘I don't,' Ralf said. ‘Neither does Al. So just stop it.'

That night Stormy lay awake in bed and listened to the silence. Ralf had turned his back on him and appeared to be asleep. He almost missed the snoring and whimpering, the shudder and wobble of the old bunk bed when Tex tossed around beneath him. He had to remind himself how lucky he was to be here in the Academy, working with spitfyres.

He felt for the white ribbon which he'd slipped under his pillow, a silent reminder of Mrs C and the kitchen. He supposed it had been a kind thing for her to do.

There wasn't enough light to read his books, so he pulled out the old circus flyer and stared at the dim pictures of the Great Renaldo instead, trying to imagine life in a circus. And he thought about the spitfyres. Tomorrow he'd see them in daylight. Tomorrow he would start getting to know them. Tomorrow he'd start learning everything he could. He was so excited he thought he'd never sleep, but at last he did, with the circus programme clutched in his hands.

He woke once. A noise like thunder rumbled through the air. He guessed it was a storm approaching and waited for lightning or rain, but when none came he realised it had been the roar of a spitfyre. Which one was it? he wondered sleepily. Ah, what did it matter? It was a spitfyre, a lovely, wonderful, beautiful winged horse . . . unless perhaps it was that bad one in the thirteenth cave? Was it that one, that no one went in to see and was best forgotten? Poor thing. And Stormy fell asleep feeling sad.

The next day Stormy woke early as usual. Ralf was still sleeping.

All night he had been plagued by dreams about the spitfyre in the thirteenth cave. Was it really so dangerous? Was it even a spitfyre? What if it was something entirely different, like a dragon? What if it was ill and needed help?

Shaking only a little, he sneaked out of the bedroom and made his way to the caves. No one had told him he couldn't go there on his own.

The spitfyres were all dozing in the cool of the morning. One or two looked up at him briefly but without interest as he went past.

He hated the thought of an animal being a prisoner in the dark cave and no one seeing it, of it seeing no one and nothing.
I'll just take a quick look
–
I just have to see for myself
.

He stood outside cave thirteen for a few minutes, getting his breath back and just listening. There wasn't a sound from inside. Nothing. Stupidly, he hadn't brought a thork or a lantern, but he hadn't got time to go back and find them. He took a big breath, squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

A fold of rock blocked the entrance. He inched slowly round it.

The smell hit him like a brick. It stung his nose and made his eyes water. He coughed and choked and almost turned back, but went on, pinching his nostrils tight. He let his eyes adjust to the gloom and stopped again. A little daylight came in behind him, and soon shapes began to emerge from the shadows. He could hear wheezy breathing.

He took another step. He could see it now. It
was
a spitfyre.

It was lying on its side, its legs outstretched, a tattered wing draped limply over the ground like a bit of curtain. It was too dark to see what colour its coat was, or its wings. It was thin and bony and so still that if it hadn't wheezed so, it might have been dead.