The Book of Storms (21 page)

So whoever finds the taro, if he or she can unlock its song and hear its voice, can call up a storm. The taro binds itself to its finder and imbues that finder with the forces unique to storms. No storm can kill the finder, nor take from him or her that taro, which must, according to the laws of Nature, belong entirely to the finder, for the duration of his or her life.

He was—what was the word?—
imbued
with the forces of storms? They were inside him, for
ever
? For his entire life?

Danny saw his own hands steadily holding the book. He saw his legs dressed in the black school trousers, and his feet inside their leather shoes. Were those hands, those legs, those feet—were they wrapped around storms? It was impossible. But it was written in the book, wasn't it? He, Danny O'Neill,
was
a storm.

An angry, raging, violent storm. Inside him, until he died …

But beware! To
contain
something does not give a creature the means by which to control it. No earthly creature can control a storm. A storm will do what it likes, once gathered.

He had learned the song from the worm. So he could call up a storm, and it couldn't kill him, but he couldn't
do
anything with it. And he had no idea how to call up the particular one that his parents had gone after, anyway.

Have more faith
, wrote the book.
There are always paths to travel. And it's certainly true that bravery can be its own reward. There is a creature to whom the secrets of storms are partly known—the farthest-traveling bird of all, which spends its days and nights flying and sleeping on the high currents of the air: the swallow. A swallow will know where the weather has gone. A swallow will know what remains of it.

The page stretched away, blank. Danny tried to turn more pages, but his fingers kept slipping before he could separate them.

Ask a swallow. It was a sort of clue, he supposed. But not much of one.

“All that,” said Tom, “for a book written in Polish.”

Danny closed the Book of Storms and tried to think. It must have said very different things to Abel Korsakof, all about types of storms and how they gathered up, and how they worked. It must have said just enough to make him feel like he had something to work on, or that he was learning things that nobody had ever known before. There must have been something in there that had convinced him he'd gotten a good deal in return for his soul. But had he known that the book would change for Danny?

Probably not. And if Abel had known the stuff about taros and swallows, the old man could just have told him, instead of making him come all this way.

But perhaps he'd thought there was something special about the Book of Storms itself. It certainly wouldn't hurt for Danny to take it with him. Better than leaving it to grow mold in that damp old bird blind, anyway. At least, having read the whole story, he knew now that Aunt Kathleen had only been following a dream and wasn't really intent on killing him. And he knew what had happened to Mitz. The faint worry that had been nagging away since her disappearance began to drain out of his chest, leaving a tiny nut of needling betrayal in its place. Mitz had simply stopped trusting him. He'd saved her from the rabbit hole, and she'd turned against him and left.

I didn't do enough, he thought bitterly. I failed her. I couldn't even look after a cat.

This small truth provoked a surge of darkness inside him that spread through his blood like tar. It was Sammael's fault, all this. Sammael had to be found and defeated, and crushed into a dust so fine, it would make the sand grains of life look like boulders.

Danny put the book in his bag. “I know what happened to my parents,” he said to Tom. “Sammael made the storm take them, just because he was angry that they were trying to find out about storms. He didn't want to kill them, just to show them that humans shouldn't think they can control storms, because he thinks that only he should be able to do that. And I think I know how to get them back.”

“What?” Tom got to his feet. He had to lean against the tree trunk; he didn't seem able to put much weight on his right leg.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “That's it—we'll call up a storm and see what happens.”

He hadn't meant to say it. But now, as it was said, his schoolbag felt warm. The Book of Storms was glowing with heat.

“Where d'you reckon we'll find some swallows round here?” he asked Tom.

Tom looked at him for a long time. He seemed to be weighing up a great number of things in his head. Eventually he said, “Danny, we need to go home. I told Mum I'd get you back before supper, she's already raging like a mad elephant and banging on about calling the police, and I've got an exam on Friday and you've missed school, and anyway, you look really tired. Don't you want to go home and get something to eat? And some sleep?”

He didn't mention that he was starting to feel rushes of hot pain every time anything brushed against the wound on his thigh, or that his temples were squeezing tightly into his exhausted brain. But his patience was wearing out.

Danny shook his head. “You go,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

Because he would be fine now. The Book of Storms was more than a book: it was
his
book, like the stick had become his. It would protect him.

Tom took a deep breath. “For God's sake, Danny!” he said. “I can't just leave you! You're eleven! And you're a wet-behind-the-ears idiot townie—you know jack-all about finding your way around. I
can't
leave you, and I've had enough of running around chasing after stupid fairy stories. It's a load of rubbish! Don't you get it?”

Danny couldn't look at him anymore. Tom was the one who didn't get it. Tom wouldn't get it until it was too late. All Danny wanted was for Tom to see for just one second that he wasn't making any of this up, but Tom was far too practical.

“I won't go home. Not now. I've nearly got them—I'm nearly there. I know what to do, and I'll do it on my own if I have to. I don't need you anymore.” He got to his feet, swung the schoolbag onto his back, and picked up Shimny's reins, then looked at her back. It was as high as his head and he didn't have a saddle anymore. He'd find a tree stump to get on from.

*   *   *

Tom watched his cousin lead the pony away. His leg was hot and sticky; a dark, wet patch still glistened over the dried stains on his torn jeans. His ribs ached, and the skin on his cheek was tight where a huge paw had reached up to rake its claws through his flesh.

His eyes followed Danny's slight body, still dressed in navy school sweater and black trousers, as it walked past a crooked hazel tree, the spindly branches hooking toward him. Danny stumbled over a loose clump of grass and put his hand out, grabbing at a plant to stop himself falling. It was a stinging nettle. He winced but didn't stop to search for dock leaves, like Tom would have done.

What had Danny seen in that book? Spooky old thing. Written in a foreign language, so who knew what it might say? Of course Danny had pored over it for ages, probably thinking that if he read enough of the words he'd find some that were a bit like English and be able to understand what the book was about. But Tom knew that Danny didn't speak Polish, not a single word.

Crazy cousin. Maybe he'd had some kind of accident, hit his head and lost his mind. Maybe something terrible
had
happened to his parents and he'd been involved. Whatever it was, it would become clear in time, no doubt. But meanwhile, it was probably best to look after Danny rather than lock him in his room and have him beating at the door trying to get out. Tom understood the need to roam free when things were wrong.

If Tom didn't go with him, Danny would be all alone. He'd trudge through the shadows, trailing the piebald pony behind him until she, too, refused to move her ancient bones one more step, and then he'd go on by himself. Danny didn't know anything about the world, or how to survive outside at night with only the rustling trees and the bats for company. He'd end up eating deadly nightshade and sitting on giant hogweed, which would turn his skin into a sheet of itchy red blisters. He was a town boy, an indoors boy, and he was totally clueless about nature.

Tom narrowed his eyes against the harsh late-afternoon sun.

“One more hour,” he called. “You've got one more hour of this, and that's all. There're always swallows and swifts in old farm buildings. I know an old barn just outside this village. It's the other way. And after that, we're going home, whatever happens. That's it. Okay?” He unlooped Apple's reins, pulling her reluctantly round to face the opposite direction.

Silently, Danny turned and followed him.

CHAPTER 14

INTO THE WOODS

Nearly there, said Sammael to himself. Nearly ready.

He hadn't collected as many taros as he'd wanted to, but soon he'd know exactly how much power he could command with the number he had. The boy must surely be dead by now—the dogs would have torn him apart. And soon the rest of those dull-witted, ungrateful humans would follow him, down into their fiery graves.

Sammael had told Kalia to go off hunting. Then he found his way to a mountainous desert, a place as far from watchful eyes as the earth could provide.

He would allow himself six taros. Back in the room, he'd stored hundreds, but using six would give him a good idea of how huge a storm he could call up and command when he used all he had.

It was time to practice.

*   *   *

The knot of ash wood hit the stony ground and rolled until it found a little hollow, where it came to rest. Up in the sky, the clouds hunched and began to crawl toward each other. One of them belched loudly, and a swift breath of wind swept down to the mountains below.

It caught Sammael's hair. Having hair that blew in the wind was one of the best things about having taken on a human shape. It made him feel surrounded by energy.

For a second Sammael missed Kalia—he liked the way the wind gnawed at her curly gray coat. But she'd be too much in danger with what he was about to do. She was best back in England, racing through the fields flushing out rabbits, not dodging the wind around these bleak rocks.

Sammael pulled another twisted lump of wood from his pocket. Most of the taros were pieces of wood; even storms, it seemed, had particular places where they preferred to store their messages. Which proved that even storms were creatures of habit.

Habit. What a pathetic thing. Habit was just an excuse for not having any imagination. But they'd regret having made their taros so easy to find, when they saw how he could control them. And maybe once the humans saw his power, they'd start thinking twice about who was behind everything, pulling the strings.

“They won't have time to think, though,” said Sammael to himself. “They'll see, in one blinding flash, before they all die, who they really owe thanks to. I'll show them the most beautiful, the most impressive and inspiring, thing on earth, and then I'll kill them all. They'll see what
I
can be responsible for.”

He dug into his pocket again. Another lump of wood joined the other two.

“They think I'm a demon,” he said up to the bunching sky. “Then I'll show them what
demons
do.”

He chucked another taro down onto the pile. And then it was simple. He knew the call. He'd known it since he'd found that first taro and made the Book of Storms from it. He didn't even have to say it out loud, but sometimes he liked to hear his own voice, staining the storm's words like poison onto the air.

“The world is deadly, the world is bright,

The creatures that use it are blinded by sight,

But there's no sense in crying or closing the page,

Sense only battles in fighting and rage.

So come all you soldiers and answer my call,

Together we gather, together we fall!”

The clouds began to scream. Gathering, swarming, they tumbled faster and faster toward a central point in the sky, directly above the pieces of wood that Sammael had thrown. Not for them the slow, threatening rumble over hours and days, the gradual buildup of pressure. This time they were being dragged forward by a call three times as strong as the normal one, pulling them viciously toward each other.

The clouds crashed together, boiling and seething; they were squashed and stretched and yanked through the air. Inside them, electricity crackled, fighting for space. Raindrops began to swell and pour down in streams, bursting like waterfalls from the mouths of the darkening sky.

The wind around Sammael roared up into a hurricane, tearing trees from the earth. He stood, letting it rip through his hair. It wouldn't shift him. He wasn't some lowly tree or flimsy house, to be blown off his moorings and sent hurtling into the sky. He was made of air: he could stand exactly where he liked and command it not to move him.