The Storm

Judy Parry looked up from her computer screen. The wind was hissing and moaning against the window and swirling around the eaves of the house, spoiling her concentration and making her lose the thread of the story she was writing. There was a soft creaking, scarcely audible, and her five-year-old son John pushed open the door of the attic room where she sat.

'John! You should be in bed!'

'I'm scared, Mummy. Is it a big storm? Is the house going to fall down on us?'

'No, silly. Come here.'

The boy sat on her lap. His daemon Rosalind crouched on his shoulder, otter-formed. 'Are you making up a new story? Is it about Daddy?'

'Yes, I'm writing a story, but it's not about Daddy. It's about a silly panda who gets himself lost in the bamboo forest.'

'Is the panda called Lyra?'

'No, the panda's not called Lyra. That's a girl's name. His name's Nigel. Now, back to bed! I'll come and see you in a few minutes. Go on!'

'Where's Daddy?'

'Daddy's at work, at the hospital. He'll be home in a while. Night-night, John. Night-night, Rosie.'

John let himself down carefully from his mother's lap. 'Night-night, Mummy.'

'Sleep tight, Johnny.' The door closed behind the boy and his daemon.

Judy turned back to her computer, but found the story had died on her. She no longer cared whether Nigel the panda ever found his home in the Garden Of Celestial Happiness.

'Lyra, Lyra, Lyra! Always Lyra! Oh Skaven, will this never end?'

Victor Reigali found Giovanni Bellini in the kitchen of his villa. He had walked all the way up the lane which zig-zagged from the centre of the town of Cittagazze, fighting the furious air every step of the way. The old man looked up from his place by the stove. The wind shrieked and whistled in the chimney.

'Victor! What brings you here?'

'Signore Bellini, I am looking for Guili. She was not with the women in the Town Hall.'

The shutters of the villa windows were rattling and banging, making it difficult for the men to hear each other speak.

'They are waiting there, are they?'

'Yes, Signore. They are waiting for the men to return.'

'They will not return.'

Victor's face turned white. 'You mean – they will be killed?'

'I mean they will not return now, today. They will stay at sea, until the storm dies down. Giancarlo is weather-wise. He will know what to do.'

'Yes… yes. But where is Guili, if she is not waiting with the others?'

'They have a place, she and Carlo. You will find her there. I have some things that you can take to her.'

The waves were breaking hard against the far harbour wall, sending white sheets of spindrift flying over the promenade and the buildings which faced the sea. Victor found Guilietta Bellini where her father had told him he would, sitting on one of the steps which led down to the quayside. Wordlessly he handed her a waterproof cloak, and she wrapped it around her shoulders. He stood next to her.

'Carlo is brave and clever. He will not let his boat sink, or his men drown.'

Guilietta turned her face to Victor. He could see the moisture in the corners of her deep-brown eyes and he knew that it had not come from the wind-lashed waters below them. 'I know. But I will wait for him. I will see him when he returns, and I will be the first to greet him.'

'I will wait with you.' Victor sat down next to the girl and, greatly daring, put an arm around her shoulder. 'See! I have a flask of coffee. We will wait together.'

The violent buffeting motion of the airship had reduced considerably, although the hissing of the wind and the roaring of the engines were as loud as ever. Lyra carefully rose to her feet. The floor beneath her was, she though, steady enough that she would be able to make her way across it with out being in too much danger of being thrown against the walls, or the table and chairs, and being hurt. She staggered to the railing and looked down out of the window. A white light was pouring up through them; sunlight reflected from the tops of the clouds which tore and streamed below. Hand over hand she made her way along the railings, into the passageway and along to the stairwell which led down to the control gondola. Pantalaimon followed, hugging the floor, gripping it with his claws. They climbed down the stair, one cautious step at a time.

'Sir Captain!' The go-captain looked up from his chart. 'What is happening? Where are we?'

'Madam Professor, you should not be here! This area is out of bounds to passengers!'

'But I am here, Sir Captain. Can you tell me what is going on? Are we in danger?' Lyra took a tight hold of a stanchion. The howling of the wind and the bellowing of the engines were twice as loud here in the gondola as they had been in the hull of the airship. The go-captain considered. The Professor was a King's Councillor, and entitled to know their situation.

'There is a great storm, Madam Professor. The wind is blowing hard from the west and it has made it impossible for us to follow our intended course to London. We have ascended to ten thousand feet – which is above the worst of the storm – and we have heaved to, which is to say that we have turned our bows to the wind and we are using the engines and tail-fins to maintain a steady position and angle.'

'Do we have enough fuel for the engines, Sir Captain?'

'The tanks are not full, Madam Professor, for we were only intending to travel to Falkeshall, disembark you there, and then go to Hownslow Field to refuel. We have only about four hours' endurance left.'

'And the lift? Do we have enough spare gas and ballast aboard to stay at this altitude?'

'I see that you have flown before, Madam Professor.'

'Yes, Sir Captain, in balloons and dirigibles. But; how do we stand for lift?'

'If there are no leaks in the ballonets or any other losses, we can stay aloft for at least two weeks. Do not worry about our buoyancy reserves, Madam Professor.'

'Thank you, Sir Captain. I have only one other question. Would you normally fly in these conditions? I mean, were you surprised to be ordered to fly today, or that the stop-captain was permitted to hand command over to you?'

'Madam Professor, you are a King's Councillor and this is the most well-founded vessel in the King's Flight. And yet… perhaps some might say that for such a short journey it was not strictly necessary for you to travel by air. Of course, I do not call my orders into question, you understand.'

'I understand perfectly, Sir Captain. You have been very helpful and your discretion does you credit. May I stay here in the gondola? Is there somewhere I can sit that's out of the way?'

'Take my seat, Madam Professor. I shall do very well where I am.'

The go-captain bent to his chart. The helmsman gripped the wheel, the tendons standing out on the back of his hands. White cloud-light flooded the gondola, casting shadow-images of the windows on the roof above.

Pantalaimon whispered in Lyra's ear. 'I bet we're the only ship flying today.'

'Yes, Pan, I'm sure we are.'

'Do you think we were ever meant to get as far as London?'

Lyra looked around the gondola. 'These are brave men, Pan. Honourable too, I think. They know what it means, to do your duty and to follow orders.'

'But who is giving the orders?'

'Who indeed, Pan? Who indeed?'