Child of the Cloud Page 5

  ‘Relax,’ Whisker said, rattling the pearls in his bag. ‘Our guardian angel has provided us with more than enough to purchase a sea-worthy vessel.’

  Lake Azure

  Whisker stood alone on the deserted jetty overlooking the sky-blue waters of Lake Azure. Small waves, whipped up by a strengthening eastern breeze, broke against the pylons of the jetty, spraying icy-cold water over his trousers and boots.

  The dark shadow of a cloud drifting slowly across the water sparked a momentary bout of panic.

  ‘The Black Shadow,’ he gasped, recalling the mysterious black ship that had appeared to him during the Pirate Cup. ‘It can’t be here. It’s impossible.’

  Banishing any thoughts of the ghostly vessel, Whisker focused on more pleasant aspects of the scenery. Behind him lay the cosy township of Hawk’s View. White curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of steep-rooved cottages, before being quickly swept away by the alpine wind. The occasional animal braved the afternoon chill with a visit to the marketplace, but the cobblestone streets were mostly deserted. It appeared the majority of the townsfolk were indoors, warming their toes by a fire or preparing their evening meals.

  It was a quaint, sleepy little community, and Whisker wondered if its residents had any real understanding of the monstrous prison that lay on their doorstep. Glancing back at a line of lakeside chalets, he pictured the entire town coming to life during the summer months. Rich city folk would travel in droves up the wide western road from the nation’s capital, Elderhorne, and stay for the school holidays. There would be sailing, fishing and swimming. In the winter months, Hawk’s View would be covered in white and used as a base for skiers and tobogganers visiting the nearby mountain slopes. Autumn, it seemed, was a quiet time of year.

  Without so much as a friendly fisherman to give him the time of day, Whisker turned his attention to a small boatshed, positioned halfway along the dock. Stepping closer, he noticed a weathered metal sign nailed to its door.

  Enquire within, Whisker said to himself, raising his paw to knock. I’ll do just that.

  His freezing knuckles rapped against the hard wood. Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Enter,’ boomed a deep voice from inside.

  Running his paw through his recently combed fringe, Whisker steadied his nerves and opened the door.

  The shop was a ramble of fishing supplies and boating equipment – an absolute mess. Buoys, cast nets and anchors hung from the rafters. Lifejackets, signal flares and wooden oars lined the walls. There were reels of fishing line stacked next to gumboots, and boxes of matches bulging from shelves. Lead sinkers and brightly-coloured lures overflowed from barrels, spilling onto the grimy floor. Every inch of the shop seemed to be covered with something.

  Whisker walked delicately across the cluttered floor, hoping he wouldn’t trip on a loose plank or a bucket of fish hooks.

  ‘Can I help you, young rat?’ asked a voice from behind the counter.

  Whisker looked up, and for a moment he thought the shopkeeper was a part of the display. He was an enormous grey badger wearing a dolphin-print beanie and bright yellow fisherman’s jacket with the price tag still attached to the sleeve. In his paws he clutched a copy of the Cloud Chronicle, Hawk’s View’s local newspaper. The headline read, WILD WEEKEND WEATHER EXPECTED.

  ‘I-I-I’m after a boat,’ Whisker said, struggling to stop his teeth from chattering.

  ‘Aye,’ the badger said, studying him suspiciously. ‘And maybe a coat?’

  ‘N-n-no, th-th-thank you,’ Whisker stammered. ‘I’m n-n-not cold.’

  The truth was, Whisker was absolutely freezing. Wearing only a woollen sweater, he was far from adequately dressed for the icy conditions of the lake. In an attempt to shake his Hooded Mouse Bandit identity, he had left his coat and scarf with his companions, accepting Horace’s offer to comb his tangled fur with his hook.

  Both Ruby and Horace had volunteered for the boat-buying role, but it was decided that a limping girl in an eye patch, and a hook-wielding midget looked far more conspicuous than a shivering rat with a comb-over.

  Whisker’s new appearance as a weather-ignorant city slicker gave him some comfort when he considered he had already seen three wanted posters for his arrest, including one plastered to the wall behind the badger.

  As Whisker approached the counter of the shop, the badger peered down at him and shrugged. ‘I’ll never understand the behaviours of you city folk. You’d prefer to be fashionable an’ freeze than button on a respectable cardigan and be warm.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are from the city, aren’t you?’

  ‘Port Abalilly,’ Whisker said, between teeth chatters. ‘I’m in the pearl diving industry.’

  ‘Aye,’ the badger grunted. ‘No pearls out ‘ere, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I thought I’d give freshwater fishing a try,’ Whisker ventured.

  The badger’s face lightened. ‘Now that’s something I can help you with!’ He gestured for Whisker to follow him to a small window at the rear of the shed. Removing the beanie from his black-and-white striped head, he used it to wipe a frosted pane of glass.

  ‘Take a look out there,’ he said, pointing to a line of small fishing boats moored against the jetty. ‘For the right price, you can have the pick of my vessels. It’s a quiet time of year so the fish’ll be plentiful.’ He tapped the corner of the glass where Falcon Island was visible in the distance. ‘Stay clear of that island, mind you. A wee lad of your size will be lifted straight out of the boat and carried off for a falcon’s supper.’

  ‘O-okay,’ Whisker gulped. ‘Do you have any enclosed vessels?’

  The badger gestured to a blue and white boat at the end of the line. It had a small cabin partway along its hull and appeared to be the only vessel not half-submerged, half-built or in desperate need of repair.

  ‘The Ice Maiden is my wife’s pride and joy,’ he said, placing his paw over his heart. ‘But I’m afraid to say she’s not for sale – the boat that is, not my wife …’ He winked and added, ‘Although technically she’s not for sale either.’

  Whisker reached into his bag and pulled out the string of pearls.

  ‘Maybe this will change your mind,’ he said, raising the necklace into the air.

  The badger’s eyes lit up like lighthouses.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he gasped.

  ‘I’m not just a pearl diver,’ Whisker said, extending the necklace to the mesmerised shopkeeper. ‘I’m an exceptional pearl diver.’

  ‘Wonders of all wonders!’ the badger marvelled, running his huge, furry fingers over the immaculate pearls. ‘With a necklace like this, you can have the boat and my wife!’

  Whisker laughed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your beloved Mrs Badger, but there are a few other items I require.’

  ‘Yes, yes, take whatever you want,’ the badger said absently, unable to take his eyes off the precious pearls. ‘Hooks, lines, sinkers … help yourself to anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Whisker said, looking around the shop. ‘And I have one final request.’

  ‘Name it,’ the badger said, squeezing the necklace over his head.

  Whisker pointed to the badger’s bright yellow fisherman’s jacket. ‘I’m in need of a new coat.’

  The badger let out a hearty roar. ‘This one? Be my guest! It’s ten sizes too big for your wee body, but who am I to question the fashion of pearl divers?’

  Rattling his new pearls and whistling a jolly sea shanty, the badger removed the shiny yellow jacket and handed it to Whisker.

  Whisker smiled to himself as he examined the ghastly yellow item. Wide sleeves … broad neck … extra length … the size is absolutely perfect.

  The Ice Maiden

  The Ice Maiden slipped quietly into the mouth of the Hawk River, leaving only a gentle wake behind her. Sleek and narrow, she had been built to navigate through the ice-encrusted winter waters of the lake and her reinforced bow gave her strength as well as speed. She was an alpine goddess, painted to
blend in with her surrounds. Her vibrant blue hull harmonised with the rich colour of the lake and her triangular white sail mimicked the snowy peaks of the mountains.

  Clutching the tiller (the long shaft of wood attached to the boat’s rudder), Whisker steered the boat a short distance downriver until he drew level with three passengers waiting along the pebbly shore.

  ‘A-a-ahoy there!’ Whisker hollered, his teeth still chattering profusely.

  ‘About time, Ice Boy,’ Ruby called back, her cherry-red hood flapping wildly in the wind. ‘We almost froze to death waiting for you.’

  Horace held up Whisker’s coat with his hook. ‘You look like you could use this.’

  Whisker pulled the boat into the shallows and lowered the anchor. His companions clambered aboard.

  ‘A fine vessel you’ve got here, matey,’ Horace said, handing Whisker his coat.

  ‘It’s a pity the same couldn’t be said about your wet-weather wardrobe,’ Ruby added, pointing to the gaudy yellow fisherman’s jacket lying next to the tiller.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Whisker clarified. ‘It’s for Chatterbeak.’

  ‘Soggy sesame seeds it is!’ the parrot screeched. ‘That thing’s got less style than a peacock with a crew cut.’

  ‘Let me explain, Chatterbeak,’ Whisker said, trying to calm him down. ‘The peregrine falcons will be expecting to see a badger sailing the Ice Maiden – possibly one wearing a bright yellow fisherman’s jacket. From head to tail, you’re about the same height as the badger that sold me this boat. If you wore his jacket so that only your black beak and white face were visible beneath the hood, the falcons might be fooled into thinking you were him.’

  Chatterbeak crossed his wings over his chest, refusing to budge.

  ‘What about the rest of us?’ Horace asked, searching the deck for further disguises. ‘Do we dress up as badger cubs?’

  Whisker shook his head. ‘We hide in the cabin and keep our mouths shut. Despite the presence of a large badger on board, the falcons might still attempt a mid-lake raid if they spot a tasty morsel or two scampering around.’

  ‘That’s all well and good in theory,’ Ruby said, inspecting the fish-shaped buttons on the oversized jacket, ‘but I doubt our fashion-conscious friend could sail the Ice Maiden on his own, even if he did decide to cooperate.’ She shrugged dramatically. ‘Oh well …’

  ‘Caw, caw!’ Chatterbeak squawked, snatching the jacket out of her paws. ‘I’m a pirate parrot, not a desert condor. Of course I can sail this boat!’

  Ruby winked at Whisker and whispered, ‘Parrot pride. It works every time.’

  ‘Alright,’ Whisker said, striding towards the cabin. ‘Chatterbeak is our new helmsman. The rest of you, follow me. On the off chance the falcons aren’t so easily fooled, I’ve put a few defence strategies into place.’

  ‘What kind of strategies?’ Horace asked, scurrying after him.

  Whisker smiled. ‘The kind that go BANG!’

  Under the command of Captain Chatterbeak, the Ice Maiden began its journey north up the Hawk River towards Cloud Mountain. The wind blew fiercely from the south-east, propelling the boat rapidly through the choppy waves.

  While Ruby helped Chatterbeak squeeze his wings into the large sleeves of the jacket, Whisker showed Horace what he had stashed in the cabin. Apart from the usual fishing paraphernalia, there were several blocks of chocolate, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, lanterns, matches and coils of thin rope. What caught Horace’s attention, however, was not the wilderness supplies, but the long line of signal flares stacked up against the starboard windows. Resembling fireworks, the flares had conical heads, thin fuses and long wooden safety handles. Judging by the sheer number of the rockets, it was clear that Whisker had procured the badger’s entire supply.

  ‘Shiver me tinder box!’ Horace exclaimed, picking up one of the red flares. ‘How much rescuing do we need?’

  ‘The flares aren’t for signalling,’ Whisker said, glancing through a port side window as they re-entered the waters of Lake Azure. ‘They’re for scaring. A bright flash of red and a loud explosion should be enough to keep any hungry birds at bay. And should the falcons be game enough to persist, we’ll at least have something to aim at!’

  ‘I like the way you’re thinking,’ Horace chuckled. ‘Out with the tremble-tailed apprentice from the Cyclone Sea and in with the cut-throat captain of the lake!’

  ‘I’d still feel terrible if I hit one of them,’ Whisker said, downplaying the ferocity of his plan. ‘After all, they’re simply a flock of birds hunting for their supper.’

  ‘And we’re a mischief of rats trying to stay alive!’ Horace argued. ‘Pick a side.’

  Whisker shrugged and returned his attention to the window.

  ‘The falcons might not be the only obstacles we have to look out for,’ he said, watching the towering cumulus clouds filling the sky. ‘There’s a forecast for wild weather and those clouds have been building all afternoon.’

  ‘Bring on the rain,’ Ruby said, limping into the cabin. ‘Chatterbeak’s all set with his shiny new raincoat and a shower or two might even drive the birds away.’

  ‘It’s not the rain I’m worried about,’ Whisker said, pointing to the sky. ‘Have you noticed how those clouds are expanding upwards, not outwards?’

  ‘Not really,’ Horace shrugged, peering through a second window. ‘They’re big and white and look like cottonwool. That’s all. No offence, Whisker, but it seems you’ve inherited your mother’s weather wisdom. The rest of us don’t know the difference between a cumulostratosaurus cloud and a patch of smoke.’

  Ruby rolled her eye. ‘It’s cumulonimbus, you nincompoop!’

  ‘My point exactly!’ Horace grunted. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘Look, I’ll explain it to you,’ Whisker said. ‘At higher altitudes, the temperature gets colder – as evidenced by the snow on the mountaintops. If the moisture in a rain cloud reaches a high enough altitude it can turn into ice crystals or hail.’

  ‘Now that sounds like a serious weather warning,’ Horace admitted.

  ‘Keep an eye on the sky,’ Whisker said. ‘If those harmless cottonwool clouds develop into high-altitude storm clouds, we could be in for a bumpy ride.’

  The prospect of a late afternoon storm appeared to have scared off any local fishing crews and the lake was totally deserted. Chatterbeak, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long, started a conversation with himself about badgers. His limited knowledge of the burrowing creatures didn’t deter him from talking non-stop until the Ice Maiden drew close to Falcon Island.

  Inside the cabin, Whisker had the spyglass glued to his eye, staring out a port side window. His attention shifted constantly between the cloudy sky and the tree-covered island to the west. The place was ablaze with autumn colours. The amber and gold tones of deciduous birch leaves provided a stark contrast to the emerald-green needles of evergreen furs. Large outcrops of rock and low limestone cliffs created empty spaces between the trees. From what Chatterbeak had said about peregrine falcons, Whisker guessed the birds would be nesting on rocky ledges and plateaus.

  Although there had been no sign of the falcons during their voyage, Whisker still felt uneasy as the small boat glided towards the easternmost point of the island. He pictured the birds’ powerful black eyes watching them through the trees, ready to launch in pursuit. There was no doubt he would have preferred to skirt a wider girth of the island, but the breeze had strengthened, shifting to the east, leaving Chatterbeak little hope of sailing straight into an alpine headwind.

  No one spoke as the forest of green and gold slowly drifted past them. Autumn leaves, blown high into the air, took on the shapes of soaring birds, sending Whisker’s heart racing. The crash of waves breaking against the rocky shoreline echoed through the walls of the cabin. Whisker almost convinced himself that the powerful hooked beaks of the falcons were hammering through the wood of the hull and the ever-present howl of the wind was the sound of their wings.

&n
bsp; Despite his fears, the journey continued without incident and the Ice Maiden finally rounded the northern cliffs of the island. Twilight fell as the evening sun dropped below the cottonwool clouds and shone majestically between mountain peaks, bathing the lake in rich, golden light. With only Cloud Mountain ahead of them, Chatterbeak turned the boat north-west and began the final leg of their journey.

  Horace, who had been nibbling on a block of chocolate while Whisker and Ruby stared out the two port side windows, finished his last square and squeezed in beside Whisker.

  ‘Anything worth looking at?’ he mumbled with his mouth full.

  ‘Nothing bird-related, if that’s what you were wondering,’ Whisker replied. ‘And the weather appears to have held.’

  ‘Good,’ Horace said, staring out across the sun-drenched lake. He was quiet for a moment. ‘I know it’s a random question, but have you wondered why the water in this lake is so blue?’

  Whisker lowered the spyglass and sighed. A part of him wanted to tell Horace that now wasn’t the best time for a science lesson, but the rest of him was glad to have something non-life-threatening to talk about for a change.

  ‘There’s a theory about the water,’ he said, shuffling aside to give Horace more room at the window. ‘My mother explained it to me during one of our many weather-related conversations. Apparently the vivid blue colour of the water is due to light reflecting off tiny silt particles.’

  ‘So where do these silt particles come from?’ Horace asked. ‘Fish poo?’

  ‘Whisker screwed up his nose. ‘No, Horace. The particles of silt are known as rock flour. They’re washed into the lake from the glacial stream of the mountain.’