Sea. Sarah Driver

A man shouts and cries out like a frighted bab. I drift inside and the stranger’s there, asleep in Da’s bunk. A candle burns by his bedside – is he afraid of the dark? He thrashes and yells. ‘Lost. Dark. No! Gone. Almost had them. But I’ll find them again, can’t have been for nothing—’ Then he startles awake and stares about him for a long moment. ‘Who’s there?’ he barks. But he can’t see me, cos only my spirit is there, dream-dancing.

      Darkness falls earlier every night, now this fearsome winter’s stirring. I watch through the porthole as the Huntress prowls past a stretch of ice-flats. These skinny sea-paths through the ice are perilous, cos the land-lurking Fangtooth Tribe rule this place with terror.

      Grandma’s orders float along the deck. ‘Lamps doused! Shields up! Oarsmen below! Black-cloaks, be watchful for Fangtooths. The Huntress is entering the Frozen Wastes – Sparrow’s whale-song is the only sound I want to hear, from this beat on. May strong winds fill our sails.’

      The drum fades and Sparrow’s high voice rises, like a bell, to chime along with the whales. Blue puffs of song blow past my face. His voice will keep the whales close and they’ll guide us forwards in the dark, so we don’t crash into the ice.

      Thaw-Wielder clings to my shoulder. How does Grandma think I’m gonna be captain if she don’t let me join the watch when danger lurks? I mutter.

      Danger? Thaw trills.

      I need to be out on deck, where I can watch for polar dogs and keep an eye on that Stag. Suddenly I snatch a yawn, and Thaw catches it in her beak. Last night in my dream-dance I saw Stag thrashing in his sleep, and babbling about something being lost. My mind flits to the missing Storm-Opals in Da’s note.

      Feather-fear, chirrups my fledgling, hiding her head under my chin.

      You stay here then. I nest the hawk in a swirl of bedding. But I ent frighted of the Fangtooths, just cos they wear bones round their necks and file their teeth into daggers. What if they’re out there, hunting us? I can’t stay put a heartbeat longer.

      I pile on another walrus skin and some slippers, then grab my bow and quiver from under the bunk.

      Outside, cold blackness steals my breath. The Huntress glides through a forest of icebergs, some tall enough to hide their heads in the clouds. There’s a sadness to them, like they hold too many secrets.

      Sparrow plays with the whales, mixing up the words of his song to make the bowheads chuckle, whilst a pod of orcas hunthunthuntPUSHhunthunthunt, driving fish up through the thin ice on the surface. Sea-hawks swoop silently over the waves to seize herrings from the sea and plunk them onto the deck. My eyes drink it in as I turn in circles. Grandma was going to let me miss all this?

      I feel my way along the frosty deck. Grandma’s in the mended crow’s nest, blowing softly into a bone pipe, in time with Sparrow’s song. A dark shape ripples next to her head – when I squint I can just make out the ancient sea-hawk, Battle-Shrieker, perched on her shoulder.

      Sparrow sings at the prow, his hair and furs glowing white under the moon’s light. He spots me and grins. By his side, Vole captures drifts of whale-song in the crystal atop her prentice-staff, making it glow midnight blue.

      We break free of the ice forest and drift down a narrow path through the middle of the frozen land. The whales fall silent as they’re forced to dive beneath the ship.

      An eerie moan carves the night, spilled from the throat of an animal.

      My heart becomes a wild bird, thrashing against my ribs. Grandma hoots into her cupped hands and black-cloaks step out of the shadows, all along the storm-deck and higher up on the fore-castle. Icicles hang from the men’s beards. Stag’s with them, eyes glittering.

      I scan the ice but it’s too dark to see. Then Sparrow’s song strikes deep into my bones.

       Do you remember

       When the sea

       Lay, still, in wait for me.

       Don’t you remember?

       Watch and see, they tread the paths, swim the seas.

       They fly wild through the skies,

       Fathoms deep and mountains high.

       They are three,

       Sea, land and sky.

       On the sea

       One travels wide.

      It’s the old song, the one in Da’s message! I pull Da’s carving from my pocket and open the sails. The runes glow. I blink, hard, but the glow burns brighter. The whales sing with Sparrow, stirring the runes to life.

       Might he claim this sea,

       Claim it for his own?

       Witches call to me, atop the Wildersea,

       The hearth-stones treasure their memory.

      The moan becomes a bones-deep baying for our blood. The runes whizz around the sails, then settle into a pattern of arrows. Da must’ve enchanted the message!

       You must remember

       What waits there,

       You’ll find it at the point high in the air—

      The Huntress brushes an iceberg. Sparrow stumbles, the song knocked from his mouth. ‘Hold steady!’ shouts Grandma. ‘Keep your wits about you!’ I stuff the carving into my pocket and tear along the deck towards the prow, opening my throat to make room for my battle-howl.

      Grandma’s voice calls, cracked with worry. ‘Sparrow, get away from the side.’ She’s scuttled down from the crow’s nest and stands with her black-cloaks on the fore-castle.

      There’s a feathery bump as Thaw-Wielder lands on my shoulder – I must’ve left the porthole open. What’s Grandma seen? I whisper. What’s out there?

      The hawk nips my ear painfully. Danger, danger, danger! she shrills.

      Before my brother can move, something big and white blurs through the darkness, crashing onto the rail on the port side.

      ‘Black-cloaks, string your bows!’ Grandma booms. ‘Nock, draw—’

      ‘Do not draw!’ Stag’s voice cuts through the night like a whip.

      Great plumes of whale-breath rise from the sea, encircling the Huntress. The whales are trying to keep us safe with a protective circle of seawater, to stop Fangtooths or their beasts from boarding, but they’re too late.

      A huge shaggy creature crouches on the rail, bristling and snapping. It swipes a paw and knocks Vole’s staff from her hands. The crystal smashes, letting the whale-song escape, its midnight-blue glow weaving up into the sails. Vole tries to shield Sparrow, but the creature lashes out again and Vole screams as she falls to the deck.

      I’ve seen etchings like that beast – it’s a polar dog, one of the savage hounds that pull the Fangtooths’ sleds and guard their homes.

      Sparrow’s fright-frozen; the only part of him that moves is the white cloud of his breath.

      ‘Black-cloaks, loose! Sparrow, move!’ Grandma’s voice has a dangerous edge now. I wait for the arrows to fly.

      ‘Black-cloaks, ready, but loose on my say!’ Stag barks. What’s he think he’s doing, trying to give commands right under Grandma’s