The Spin Read Online Free Page A

did the robbing thieving villain get in?’ Otto added, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know.’
    Brittel pointed at Stormy.
    â€˜Ask that little grubbin-lover. He might know.’
    Stormy kept silent. Avoiding Brittel’s stare, he stood up and started chopping again. Now no one would ever know what he’d done.

5
Crash
    A week passed; two, three, four. The winter nights drew in. It got colder and the first snow began to fall. The tiny stream that trickled down the side of the mountain froze. Ice formed in intricate lace patterns on the windowpanes. The compost heap with its crispy covering of snow turned into a beautiful white cake.
    Stormy found himself often looking towards the tiny dungeon windows that were squashed beneath the castle and above the kitchens in the rock of the mountain, imagining the poor grubbin locked away in a miserable prison cell. What a horrible place to be.
    He was on full-time compost duty now. Nipping down to the compost heap gave him a bit of fresh air and got him out from under Otto’s critical gaze. It gave him a chance to look for spitfyres too; even just seeing one in the distance made him feel brighter. The sight of one would fuel his dreams for nights. Dreams where he had parents, who were spitfyre keepers, and Stormy, their beloved, handsome and brave son, had many wonderful adventures.
    It was impossible; an impossible dream. He was a kitchen orphan and life was unfair; but still, if you couldn’t dream, what could you do?
    One chilly damp evening, Stormy wrapped a scarf round his neck and set off from the kitchen with the full bucket, whistling quietly. Luckily the sun hadn’t quite gone, because coming down in the dark now, he was always looking over his shoulder nervously or staring hard into the murky places.
    Suddenly a shadow fell over him; he stopped and looked up.
    Two great dark shapes were right overhead. Two flying horses had swooped silently down and were hanging over him like two enormous birds.
    Stormy’s heart lurched painfully. The animals were
so
magnificent.
So
beautiful! They glided around, circling smoothly over him as if on an invisible wire.
    â€˜Hello!’ Stormy yelled and waved. ‘Hello!’
    Neither sky-rider waved back. Goggles and helmets hid their faces. Stormy’s own smile died. One rider signalled to his spitfyre, making it tip and bank to the side, then rise up vertically, until it seemed to balance on the tip of its hind legs. Stormy was frozen, watching in wonderment and awe. Suddenly its massive wings scooped backwards, thrust forwards, and with an enormous swoosh the compost heap flew up into the air.
    The sky-rider laughed.
    The powerful draught from the spitfyre’s wings threw Stormy to the ground. Cabbage leaves, orange peel and bones swirled up and then fell back in a thick horrid rain.
    A voice called, ‘Thought you were a
grubbin
!’
    The winged horse spun round. It opened its jaws and a blast of flames shot out and set light to the fragments of compost. Tiny balls of red scattered, starting miniature fires across the hillside.
    Stormy’s clothes were smoking. He rolled around on the ground, hitting out at the smouldering fabric. He was scorched all over, his eyes were stinging from the smoke and when he felt for his eyebrows they were much smaller than they had been before.
    He could have gone up in flames. He could have been burnt to a frazzle, just on the rider’s whim. His heart bumped.
    There was a scream, a sudden crash and a wood-snapping sound. He spun round. The second spitfyre had smashed into a leafless plum tree. For a moment it was trapped, legs thrashing, wings flapping furiously. It neighed and cried out in fear. Then it fell, slammed into the vegetable patch, and somersaulted over the earth, throwing its rider off with a sickening crunch.
    The black-suited sky-rider lay very still, eyes shut, but breathing. Stormy glanced to see he was OK, then ran over to the