The Tiger's Egg (27 page)

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THE WEDNESDAY TALES
~
NO
. 3

 

CHAPTER ONE

SURGERY MOST FOUL

L
isten: Rain is falling, and what a rain! A billion beads of cold sky slant down through the night, turning the damp earth to mud, and the mud to pools, and the pools to streams that feed the underground river that flows beneath the cobbled streets of Larde. As lightning fills the sky the raindrops pause for a heartbeat, and are released again into the darkness. They roar on the roof tiles and
stream from the gutters; they rattle on the dancing leaves and spatter on the pavements, and the people of Larde burrow deeper into their beds with a grateful shiver.

In the dormitories of Partridge Manor, on the edge of town, sleepless children count down the storm's approach; one second less for every mile closer. Lightning floods the rooms and they count: one . . . two . . . three . . . . Then thunder crashes and rolls through the night, making the windows rattle and the smaller orphans shriek. It's getting nearer.

Miles Wednesday, floating somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, dreams of a tiger who stands below his window and roars in anger, making small birds burst from the treetops and beetles cower in the grass. The tiger's roar shakes the clouds loose and they begin to tumble earthward like boulders. Miles wakes from his dream with a start. The room is lit by a blinding flash and thunder fills the air. He looks across to see if Little is awake. Her bed is empty, the covers thrown back, and she is nowhere to be seen. Miles slides his feet into his slippers and pulls on his old overcoat, a knot forming in his stomach.

He moves to the window and presses his nose to the cold glass, cupping his hands on either side of his face. He can just make out the tree house perched between the twin trunks of the great
beech tree in the garden, a dark jumble in the downpour. Smoke rises from the tree house roof like a pale ghost. As his eyes get used to the darkness he can see torn branches hanging from the tree. He catches sight of a light blur beneath the tree house, and as it starts to climb the rope ladder he realizes with a shock that it is Little.

“What on earth is she
doing
?” he says to Tangerine. The orange-gray stuffed bear doesn't answer. He lies curled up in the pocket of Miles's overcoat, pretending to be asleep. For a moment Miles is tempted to climb back into his bed and do the same, but he can hardly leave Little alone in a smoldering tree house in the middle of a thunderstorm. He shivers as he turns to leave the dormitory. At the door he pauses. It's cold outside and he knows that in a moment he'll be soaked to the skin. He slips back across the room, lifts Tangerine gently from his pocket and tucks him under the bedcovers.

“You stay right there until I get back,” he says.

 

Miles Wednesday, squelch-slippered and rain-frozen, ran through the muddy garden, leaping over the deeper puddles, though he was already as wet as it was possible to be. The rain hammered on the top of his head and ran down his neck, plastering his pajamas to his skin. He reached the shelter of the
tree house and stood there panting. From the square hole above him a yellow light flickered, and he could just make out the sound of voices through the roar of the rain. He grasped the ladder, pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and began to climb.

The inside of the tree house was dimly lit by a couple of candles, if the mounds of knobbly wax that grew on Lady Partridge's shelves could be described as candles. Their ragged flames danced in the drafts, making shadows leap among the jumble of bric-a-brac that spilled from shelves and washed up in every corner of the room. Little was sitting on the hammock that was strung between the twin beech trunks in the center of the tree house. Her arms were crossed and she wore a stubborn frown that Miles knew well. The frown was directed at a tall, slim boy who stood facing her, with his back to Miles. The boy was speaking in low, urgent tones, and though his voice was quiet it cut like glass through the din of the storm.

“That's
his
problem. He's already marked, but there still may be a chance for you. I've told the Council that you lost your wings trying to retrieve—” The boy stopped in midsentence and turned, following Little's gaze, to see Miles's head poking up through the square hole in the floor. His dark eyes narrowed, and Miles recognized him at
once. It was Silverpoint, the Storm Angel whom Little had been following when first she fell from the sky, a winged boy one thousand years old who could command lightning with a flick of his wrist and herd thunder like cattle. He seemed to be having a little more trouble controlling the anger on his face, but he managed a thin smile.

“Hello, Miles,” he said.

Miles climbed the last few rungs and stood dripping on the rug that covered the creaky floorboards. “Hello, Silverpoint,” he said, and turned to Little. “Is everything okay?” he asked her, glancing up at the smoldering roof. Smoke was gathering under the ceiling, and a glowing ember fell as he watched, landing on Silverpoint's shoulder. The Storm Angel brushed it away without seeming to notice.

“Silverpoint has brought some news,” said Little. The frown had not left her face.

“It doesn't concern him,” said Silverpoint, turning back to Little as though he expected Miles to melt back into the puddle that was forming at his feet.

“If it concerns me, it concerns Miles too,” said Little.

“Maybe we should go inside,” interrupted Miles. “It's dry in there, and the roof isn't on fire. We should also call the fire brigade before this has a
chance to catch properly.”

Silverpoint spun back to face him, and the air around him crackled briefly with a blue haze. “Forget the shack!” he barked. “There are urgent matters to be discussed, and time is fast running out. You can stay or go as you please. I don't have the time to argue.”

Miles opened his mouth to reply, but caught sight of the anxious look on Little's face and closed it again. “Tell Miles what you told me,” she said, pushing a lock of her white-blond hair behind her ear.

“He wouldn't understand,” said Silverpoint. “What does he know of the Realm?”

“I know what Little has told me,” said Miles.

“There's no time to explain in detail,” said Silverpoint. “The Sleep Angels have passed a condemnation on you for using a Tiger's Egg. Your life is forfeit, but I may be able to save Little if I can convince the Council that she was only trying to retrieve the tiger's soul for them.”

“My life is forfeit?” echoed Miles. He was tempted to laugh. It seemed like a bizarre joke to be condemned to death in his absence for something he had been unaware of until mere weeks before, but still it made his stomach tighten.

J
ON
B
ERKELEY
was born in Dublin at a time when suits were collarless and there were no bootprints on the moon. He has worked as a freelance illustrator for over twenty years and has turned more recently to writing. He is the author and illustrator of
CHOPSTICKS
and has illustrated several books by other authors. He now lives in a small town in Catalonia with his wife, Orna, and their five children, along with five cats, one dog, and a small colony of stick insects.
THE TIGER'S EGG
is his second novel for young readers. You can visit him online at www.jonberkeley.com.

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