Child of the Cloud Page 17

  You should have stayed awake, he told himself. You could have dug your way out sooner …

  The self-accusations only made him feel worse and he was overcome by a terrible feeling of loss. It was a feeling he had experienced before and a painful memory came flooding back to him …

  He was on the Island of Destiny, clutching Ruby’s crimson eyepatch in his paw, convinced he had lost her forever …

  But on that occasion Whisker had been wrong. Ruby had been alive and the island of second chances had brought her back to him.

  Does Cloud Mountain give second chances? Whisker asked himself, latching onto the faintest of hopes. There was no denying he had failed his friends, but he began to wonder if there was still time to make amends.

  He looked up in anticipation, searching the heavens for a sign. The jet-black void of the evening sky, gave him his answer.

  A black sky is a moonless sky, he told himself. The full moon is yet to rise.

  The conclusion was enough to drag him out of his pit of despair. A moonless sky meant Anna and Horace were still alive.

  In seconds, Whisker was out of the hole and strapping the Ghost Wings to his back. He had no way of telling how much time he had lost, but the urgency of the situation only spurred him on.

  Clutching a scissor sword in each paw, he began hiking over the remains of the avalanche, navigating past chunks of ice and avoiding pitfalls in the snow. The sky above him was a cloudless sphere of stars, the twinkling points of light faintly illuminating the steep slope of the summit. The wind was light but deceptively icy and it sliced through the fibres of Whisker’s scarf like a knife blade, leaving his face stinging and sore.

  It was a cold, desolate place. The crunch of ice beneath Whisker’s boots told him he would be lucky not to freeze to death before he reached the summit.

  Leaving the avalanche debris behind him, he embarked on the final leg of his journey up the steep summit slope. As the gradient increased, the simple act of walking became painfully difficult. Whisker could only take a few steps at a time before he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He had never felt so cold or so exhausted.

  His movements became jerkier and clumsier the higher he rose. Halfway to the summit, his left boot slipped on a patch of ice. He thrust his scissor sword into the ice to regain his balance, but his right foot gave way and he lost his grip on the handle.

  Before he could stop himself, he was sliding backwards on his stomach, heading for the edge of the southern cliffs. Desperately, he threw his empty paw onto the handle of Horace’s scissor sword and, using the strength of both arms, plunged the blade into the snow above him. The sword carved through the snow like a plough, almost tearing Whisker’s arms from their sockets. Finally, it jerked to a halt, leaving Whisker sprawled face-down in the snow.

  He lay there, wheezing hard and refusing to relinquish his tight grip on Horace’s sword.

  When he eventually raised his head, he saw the Ghost Wings hanging undamaged over his shoulders and the edge of the cliff barely metres behind him.

  Two miracles, he sighed, pulling himself to his feet.

  He looked up to see how far he had fallen. His tracks extended partway up the slope and then disappeared into the darkness. He could just make out the shape of the summit towering high above him.

  It will be a long climb from this far down, he thought dismally. Too far …

  His energy was spent, he was close to freezing and, with the prospect of the moon rising at any moment, he was almost at breaking point. Overwhelmed by the challenges he faced, he reached into his pocket and removed the second block of chocolate.

  It won’t give me clarity, he reasoned, but at least it will give me strength.

  ‘Forgive me, Horace,’ he said, unwrapping the near-frozen block and stuffing several squares into his mouth. ‘I need this more than you do.’

  He forced himself to chew the hard pieces of chocolate even though they felt like stones. As he ate, he stared up at the starlit summit, realising that half the battle was in his head.

  To conquer the mountain, he first had to conquer a part of himself; the part where fear and exhaustion told him to stop; the part where hopelessness overwhelmed hope; and the part where his mind said the mountain was just too big and he was simply too small.

  If the mountain was the physical barrier, then his mind was the mental barrier. It was a constant struggle – one he had faced from the moment he had first stepped onto the glacier.

  He managed a grim smile, recalling how his journey had begun – one step at a time.

  And that was how his journey would end.

  Digging Horace’s sword into the ice to steady himself, he shuffled his left foot forward – then his right foot.

  Left foot … right foot …

  Head down, he trudged up the mountainside, ignoring the pain, dismissing the cold, losing all track of time. He simply kept walking.

  He drew level with his scissor sword and plucked it from the snow, continuing his steady ascent.

  Left foot … right foot …

  He maintained his constant rhythm with one line repeating in his head. Focus on the mountain alone …

  It was enough to see him through.

  With the final barrier broken, Whisker took his last clawing steps and reached the summit of Cloud Mountain.

  Overcome with relief and exhaustion, he raised his eyes to the heavens, marvelling at the beauty that surrounded him. The sky at the top of the world was a dome of inky blackness, accentuated by a billion points of light. Crystal clear and glowing like fireflies, the stars felt so close, Whisker almost believed he could fly up and touch them.

  He had the wings of an angel, yet his destiny didn’t lie in the heavens, it lay in the chaos and uncertainty of the world below.

  Lowering his gaze from the celestial realm, he crept across the snow towards the eastern corner of the summit. He could feel the frozen wind racing up from Eagle’s Cliffs before he was even close to the edge.

  Too stiff to remove the Ghost Wings from his back, he simply cut the bindings with his scissor sword and the wings sprang open. He returned the two swords to his belt and shuffled the final few metres unaided.

  Extending his neck forward, he peered over the edge. The terrifying images that filled his vision were lifted straight from his nightmare.

  A mass of black clouds choked the air beneath him, swirling and twisting like snakes in the howling wind. Dense, dark and sinister, they smothered Eagle’s Cliffs in a smoky veil, blocking everything from sight.

  Continuing to stare in horror, Whisker saw the black cloak of mist extending beyond the cliffs to the buttress, concealing its snowy pinnacle and rocky crags. There was little chance Ruby would see him through the thick blanket of clouds.

  Is she even down there? Whisker asked himself.

  It was likely that Ruby and Chatterbeak had heard the deafening roar of the avalanche and presumed the worst when he didn’t appear at sunset.

  Whisker hoped he was wrong.

  With the cage concealed, he would be flying blind and completely at the mercy of the wind. He had memorised the location of the cage from under the door, but in the thick clouds he could easily overshoot his target and land in the centre of the stone altar.

  And then what? he asked himself. Wait for back up. Ruby doesn’t even know you’re alive and the rest of the crew are still days away …

  He left the thought hanging, wishing his friends were with him now, longing to hear their voices. But on the desolate summit of Cloud Mountain, the stars were his only companions. They stared down at him, silent and impartial – offering him no reassurance, caring for no one.

  He was alone with his decision.

  He had come so far, survived so much, and yet everything boiled down to a single leap of faith – faith that Ruby and Chatterbeak were still waiting for him; faith that Anna and Horace were alive in the cage; and faith that he could muster the strength and courage to save them.

  But fa
ith itself was not what prompted Whisker to jump. Nor was it the dazzling tip of the moon, exploding over the distant horizon. It was conviction – conviction that taking the plunge was more important than anything else in his life.

  And with that thought, Whisker stretched out his wings and threw himself off the top of the world.

  Full Moon Rising

  Howling wind whistled past Whisker’s ears with a fierce intensity, threatening to blow him back up the mountain. Retracting his wings, he descended into the swirling clouds, his body jolting from left to right as icy gusts blasted him from every direction.

  His descent was rapid. There was no thought of gentle gliding. Time was against him.

  In moments, the birds would see from below, what he had witnessed from above – the full moon rising. Once it began its steady arc through the sky, it would take little more than two minutes to be fully visible above the eastern horizon. Whisker hoped he wasn’t already too late.

  In the darkness of the clouds, he began to spin in small, unsteady circles. Resisting the urge to fight against it, he increased his wingspan, letting the rhythm of the wind take control. His motions became more fluid as he worked with the wind, easing him down one revolution at a time.

  He glimpsed the granite face of a cliff through a gap in the clouds. Seconds later, he spied an empty eagle’s nest on the back of a ledge.

  Almost there, he told himself, fully extending his wings.

  With his pace slowing, he glided in a corkscrew spiral downwards, scanning the clouds for any sign of the cage. There was a strong gust of wind and the clouds beneath him parted. He caught a quick glimpse of a long wooden structure before the clouds closed in again, but he had seen enough to know where he was heading. Twisting his tail hard to the left, he steered himself towards the narrow ledge. Illuminated by a misty glow from the east, the pale strip of rock rushed towards him.

  Suddenly afraid his hobnailed boots would spark on impact, he tucked his legs behind him and bounced across the limestone on his knees. His trousers ripped open, tearing the skin off his knees, and he skidded to a halt in an ungraceful semi-circle. His icy legs were too numb to even feel the pain.

  He roughly released his grip on the Ghost Wings and staggered to his feet. The lower ledges of Eagle’s Cliffs were obscured by clouds, but the wind carried the excited squawks of hundreds of birds.

  Judging by the semicircle of light glowing through the clouds, Whisker estimated he had less than a minute until the moon cleared the horizon and the feast was in full swing. He hastily drew Horace’s scissor sword and limped the remaining few metres to the cage, half expecting an ambush from the misty cloud cover.

  The forked branch was still wedged securely between the door and the ledge and, with no birds to stop him, Whisker yanked it free.

  A second later, the door burst open and a line of small animals poured out – mice, possums, hamsters, shrews – too many to count. Without looking up, they moved purposefully along the ledge and began disappearing into the clouds surrounding the passage door.

  Whisker searched the faces of the animals as they scurried past him, hoping for a glimpse of his sister. He noticed several white-furred rabbits and a pair of red squirrels concealed under drab, grey blankets, but there was no sign of Anna.

  ‘You’re last,’ whispered a familiar voice from the darkened cage. ‘Get moving. You know what to do.’

  Whisker’s heart sank when he saw a small field mouse dart from the doorway and follow his fellow prisoners along the ledge.

  The next moment, the solitary figure of Horace stepped into the misty moonlight.

  ‘Where’s Anna?’ Whisker asked in dread.

  Horace looked up at his companion, his winter coat gouged with claw marks, his face awash with despair.

  ‘She’s-she’s gone,’ he stammered, struggling to find the right words. ‘I tried to stop them, but –’

  ‘Where did they take her?’ Whisker hissed.

  ‘The altar,’ Horace trembled, ‘She’s to be the first sacrifice. The Emperor Eagle …’

  Whisker didn’t wait for Horace to finish. He simply thrust his friend’s scissor sword into his paw and swung his wings towards the moon.

  ‘W-what are you doing?’ Horace gasped. ‘There are four flocks of birds down there.’

  ‘And my sister is with them,’ Whisker said, setting his jaw. ‘You’ve done what you can. The rest is up to me.’

  Without waiting for Horace’s response, Whisker took three running steps and launched himself off the ledge.

  The darkness of the clouds engulfed him at once, the hazy glow of the moon his only guide. It was an incomplete circle of light, its lower quarter still hidden beneath the horizon.

  There’s still time, Whisker gasped. But only just …

  The sight of the moon sparked a new-found strength. It flowed into his veins like fire, warming him from within and washing away the exhaustion and fatigue of the mountain. He was driven by desperation – flying on fear.

  As the moon grew clearer through the thinning clouds, he tightened his grip on the wings, preparing to face his greatest fears.

  The moon suddenly brightened and Whisker burst through the clouds to see a truly haunting sight. The sky lay open to the east, stretching uninterrupted to the horizon. Snowy mountain peaks and silver-lined clouds shrank away into the distance, hiding from the terrifying spectacle that dominated the cliffs.

  Congregated in their hundreds on the circular ledge were the birds of the full moon feast – eagles, hawks, ravens and falcons amassed as one frenzied flock. They scratched, clawed and tussled for space like a pack of wild dogs. Hungry, moon-mad and baying for blood, their beaks snapped open and shut in anticipation of the feasting to come. The sound was almost deafening – a shrieking, squawking chorus of voices, chilling Whisker to the bone.

  In the midst of the chaos stood the enormous stone altar, a pale monolith drenched in moonlight. Perched alone in the centre of the slab was the mighty Emperor Eagle. His gaze was fixed on a tiny rat in a large, flowing cloak, pinned against the stone by his monstrous right claw. With small ears, coffee-coloured fur and a distinctive fringe that hung over her brown eyes, Whisker recognised her instantly.

  Tears welled in his eyes. Memories came flooding back. It seemed like a lifetime since he had watched his little sister vanish into the cyclone. And here she was, after everything that had happened … after everything that was still happening.

  A collective squawk from the flock brought Whisker back to reality. Anna’s life hung by a thread.

  In silhouette against the rising moon, he saw the Emperor Eagle raise his hooked beak high into the air, preparing to strike the fatal blow.

  In horror, Whisker retracted his wings, increasing his speed until he was almost in freefall. He tore through the sky like a comet, a near-invisible streak of grey.

  The wings began to shake under the strain.

  Don’t fail me now, he pleaded.

  Ahead of him the moon still clung to the horizon, its ghostly light reflected in Anna’s terrified eyes. Surrounding her, the flock of birds waited expectantly, their sharp eyes fixed on the Emperor Eagle.

  Whisker was moving at a blistering pace, only seconds from the altar.

  And then, the unthinkable.

  The full moon lingered on the horizon a moment longer, then broke free, ascending above the distant peaks in triumph. There it hung, towering over the altar like a tombstone, silvery and dead.

  Whisker felt an icy dagger of despair pierce his heart. He had arrived too late.

  He shut his eyes, unable to watch.

  A terrible cry of pain and anguish echoed across the mountain. Louder than a fog horn and more bone-chilling than a banshee it seemed to rip the very wings off Whisker’s back. It was the most horrifying thing he had ever heard. And yet with the horror came hope.

  Whisker’s eyes shot wide open. Beneath him, the Emperor Eagle was staring up at the moon, his head cocked to one side in puzzlement. Hi
s right claw was wrapped loosely around a small body.

  But his captive was not dead – far from it. Anna’s eyes were wide open and she was staring straight at Whisker.

  The terrible cry rang out a second time – a deep, dragon-esque bellow that rattled the very stones of the mountain. The flock of birds shrank back in terror, their voices silenced.

  Through the eerie stillness, Whisker heard a faint whooshing sound, growing louder and louder until …

  THWACK!

  The Emperor Eagle was thrown backwards in one violent motion, losing what little grip he had left on his captive. Enraged, he thrashed his head from side to side, attempting to dislodge the net-like projectile tangled around his beak. A sinker-head arrow shaft protruded from the centre of his right wing, pinning the net in place.

  Seizing his opportunity, Whisker dove for the altar.

  He came in fast, swooping over the birds before they knew what was happening. Half the flock had their eyes fixed on a blue and yellow creature circling the moon. The rest were ducking for cover as more arrow nets rained down from the sky.

  Anna was already on her feet and running in Whisker’s direction, her tiny legs pumping beneath her oversized cloak.

  Nearing the lip of the altar, Whisker extended his wings and skimmed low over the surface of the rock.

  ‘Grab my belt and don’t let go,’ he shouted to the approaching figure. ‘Get ready to jump … NOW!’

  Anna threw her arms around his waist, clamped her small fingers onto his belt and kicked off from the ground in one smooth action.

  ‘Wen?’ she asked, peering up at Whisker’s hooded face.

  ‘Hi, Sis,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Sorry I was late.’

  Anna simply glared at the entangled eagle as they sped past.

  ‘Bad bird!’ she squeaked.

  The Emperor Eagle squawked angrily in response, struggling to gnaw his way free.

  ‘He bit off more than he could chew,’ Whisker muttered under his breath. ‘Now hold on tight. We’re not out of trouble yet!’