Syren

Miarr shook himself to get rid of his miserable thoughts – it was no good brooding about the good old days when CattRokk Light was one of four Living Lights and Miarr had more cousins, brothers and sisters than he had fingers and toes to count them on. It was no good thinking about Mirano – he was gone forever. Miarr was not as stupid as the Crowes thought he was; he did not believe their story that Mirano had been sick of his company and had sneaked away on their boat for the bright lights of the Port. Miarr knew that his cousin was, as Watchers used to say, swimming with the fishes. Miarr crouched beside the thick, curved window, staring into the dark. Far below he saw the waves building, growing too high for their own strength and then breaking with a thunderous crash, sending great showers of spume high into the air, some even splattering the Watching glass. Miarr knew that the foot of the lighthouse was now under water – he could tell by the deep shudders and thuds that had begun reverberating up through the granite blocks below, thuds that traveled all the way up through the pads of his felt-booted feet to the tip of his sealskin-clad head. But at least they drowned out the snores of Fat Crowe, and the shrieks of the wind carried away all Miarr’s thoughts of his lost cousin.

Miarr reached into the waterproof sealskin pouch that he wore slung from his belt and brought out his supper – three small fish and a ship’s biscuit – and began to chew. All the while, eyes wide, he Watched the sea, illuminated by the two great beams of light that swept across the heaving mountains of water. It was, he thought, going to be an interesting night.

Miarr had just swallowed the last of his fish – head, tail, bones and all – when he realized just how interesting the night was going to be. Miarr usually Watched the water, for what could there possibly be of interest in the sky? But that night the mountainous waves blurred the boundary between water and sky, and Miarr’s wide eyes took in everything. He was a little distracted by dislodging a fine bone wedged between his delicate, pointy teeth when one of the beams of the Light briefly caught the shape of a dragon in its glare. Miarr gasped in disbelief. He looked again but saw nothing. Now Miarr was worried. It was a bad sign when Watchers began to imagine things – a sure sign that their Watching days were numbered. And once he was gone, who would Watch the Light? But in the next moment all Miarr’s fears disappeared. As clear as day the dragon was back in the path of the beam and, like a giant green moth hurtling toward a flame, it was coming straight for the Light. Miarr let out a yowl of amazement, for now he saw not only the dragon but its riders.

A sudden crash of thunder directly overhead shook the lighthouse, a brilliant snake of lightning streaked down, and Miarr saw the lightning bolt hit the dragon’s tail with a blinding blue flash. The dragon tumbled out of control and, horrified, Miarr watched as the dragon and its riders, outlined in an iridescent mantle of electric blue charge, hurtled straight for the Watching platform. The Light briefly illuminated the terrified faces of the dragon’s riders, then instinct took over and Miarr threw himself to the floor, waiting for the inevitable crash as the dragon hit the glass.

But none came.

Gingerly Miarr got to his feet. The two beams of Light illuminated nothing more than the empty rain-filled sky above and the raging waves below. The dragon and its riders were gone.

Chapter 21 Tailspin

E ven though he had his eyes closed, Beetle knew what was happening – he could smell burning dragon flesh. This is not a good smell when you are actually flying on the burning dragon some five hundred feet in the air. It is not, in fact, a good smell at any time, particularly for the dragon.

The lightning had struck Spit Fyre with an earsplitting crash, sending a bone-juddering jolt of electricity through them all. After that everything had happened extremely fast – and yet Beetle was to remember it later in silent slow motion. He remembered seeing the lightning streak toward them, then the jarring shock that ran through Spit Fyre as the bolt hit and Spit Fyre’s head rose high in pain. Then a lurch, a roll and a sickening free fall as the dragon dropped out of the sky, heading straight for the lighthouse. It was at that moment when, at the very top of the lighthouse, Beetle had seen the little man with the huge eyes staring out in horror, that Beetle had shut his own eyes. They were going to crash into the lighthouse and he didn’t want to see it. He just didn’t. But Septimus had no such luxury – his eyes were wide open. Like Beetle, he too saw the shocked face of the little man at the top of the lighthouse; indeed, for a split second, as Spit Fyre hurtled toward the tower, their eyes met, both wondering if this was the last thing they would ever see. And when, at the very last minute, Septimus managed to steer his floundering dragon away from the lighthouse, he instantly forgot about the Watcher in the lighthouse, as all his concentration focused on keeping Spit Fyre in the air. With each wing beat, Septimus willed Spit Fyre on. The dragon lurched past the black rain-soaked tower, through the brilliant beam of light and into the night once more. And then Septimus saw something – a pale crescent of sand catching the moonlight in a brief break in the clouds.

Excited, he turned to Jenna, who was white-faced with shock, and pointed ahead.

"Land!" he yelled. "We’re going to make it, I know we are!"

Jenna couldn’t hear a word Septimus said, but she saw his relieved, excited expression and gave him a thumbs-up. She turned around to Beetle to do the same and got a shock – Beetle had all but disappeared; all she could see was the very top of his head. Spit Fyre’s tail had drooped right down, taking Beetle with it. Jenna’s feeling of optimism evaporated. Spit Fyre’s tail was injured – how much longer could he keep flying?

Septimus urged Spit Fyre on toward the sliver of sand, which was drawing ever closer. Spit Fyre heard Septimus and struggled onward, but his trailing, useless tail dragged him down, until he could barely skim over the top of the turbulent sea. The storm was passing now, taking its lightning and torrential rain to the Port, where it would soak Simon Heap as he lay sleeping under a hedge on his way to the Castle. But the wind was still strong and the waves were wild, and as Spit Fyre struggled through the spray his strength began to desert him.

Septimus clasped the dragon’s neck. "Spit Fyre," he whispered, "we’re nearly there, nearly there!" The dark shape of an island, outlined by the white of a long strip of sand, rose tantalizingly near. "Just a little farther, Spit Fyre. You can do it, I know you can…."

Painfully the dragon stretched out his torn wings, somehow regained control of his tail for a few seconds and with all three of his riders willing him on, he glided across the top of the last few waves of an incoming tide and plunged down onto a bed of soft sand, just missing an outcrop of rocks.

No one moved. No one spoke. They sat shocked, hardly daring to believe that there was land beneath their feet – or rather, beneath Spit Fyre’s stomach, for the dragon’s legs were splayed out in deep sand troughs where he had skidded to a halt and lay exhausted, resting his entire weight on his wide, white belly.

The clouds parted once more and the moon shone down, showing the contours of a small island and a gently curving sandy bay. The sand glistened white in the moonlight – it looked wonderfully peaceful – but the sound of the waves as they thundered onto rocks and the salt spray dusting their faces reminded them of what they had only just escaped.

With a great, shuddering sigh, Spit Fyre laid his head onto the sand. Septimus shook himself into action and scrambled down from his pilot seat, closely followed by Jenna and Beetle. For a horrible moment Septimus thought Spit Fyre’s neck was broken, as he had never seen him lie like this – even in his deepest, most snore-filled sleep Spit Fyre had a curve to his neck, but now it lay on the sand like a piece of old rope. Septimus kneeled and placed his hand on Spit Fyre’s head, which was wet with rain and salt spray. His eyes were closed and did not flicker open at Septimus’s touch as they always did. Septimus blinked back tears; there was something about Spit Fyre that reminded him of how the Dragon Boat had looked when Simon’s Thunderflash had hit her.

"Spit Fyre, oh, Spit Fyre – are you…are you all right?" he whispered. Spit Fyre responded with a sound that Septimus had never heard before – a kind of half-strangled roar – which sent a spray of sand into the air. Septimus stood up, brushing the sand from his sodden HeatCloak.

Jenna looked at him in dismay. "He – he’s bad, isn’t he?" she said, shivering, water dripping from her rat-tailed hair.

"I…don’t know," said Septimus.